


The Humbling River

by mysterycyclone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Avengers, Flash Thompson Redemption, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker has the Venom Symbiote, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Presumed Dead, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26808973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterycyclone/pseuds/mysterycyclone
Summary: Peter’s been distant lately. Edgy. Angry. On his best days, he moves through his life in a vague daze, skipping meals and sleeping. On his worst, he’s hit with fits of anger that border on unthinking rage.Monday afternoon, he breaks Flash Thompson’s hand.Wednesday evening, he goes missing.That night, the first headless corpse appears in Queens.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 181
Kudos: 577





	1. Chapter 1

Tony is elbow deep in his latest project when FRIDAY cuts off his music. "Boss, I have an incoming call from May Parker."

He looks up and checks the time. 8:04PM. Huh. Odd. May has early shifts this week. She should be getting ready for bed right about now. Maybe Peter’s in one of his moods again. The kid’s been touchy and distant for weeks now. Tony doesn’t know the full story, but he’s heard Happy mutter about the kid going sullen and irritable lately. 

"Put her through,” he calls out, focusing on his project. It’s delicate work, and part of him resents the interruption, but that’s the impulsive, selfish part he’s been learning to work against for a few years now. If May is calling him, then there’s a good reason for it.

A second later, May's voice comes through the speakers built into the walls. "Tony?"

"Speaking." 

He goes back to work. Multitasking is as easy as breathing for him, and he really does want to get this done. The kid’s due to visit soon, and he does like having something on hand to show off. Maybe it’ll break him out of whatever funk he’s in and give Tony a chance to talk about whatever’s bothering him.

"Is Peter with you?" And there's _something_ in her voice that catches his attention.

Tony frowns, checking the soldering joints on his latest invention. The nanobots he created aren't capable of forming into a full suit yet, but he has managed to get them to form a gauntlet over his hand with a flick of his wrist. 

"No. He skipped his internship day this week. He has some big history project due tomorrow. Isn't he with that Ted kid?"

He knows damn well what Ned's name is, but it's a habit to call him by the wrong name. With the added bonus of making Peter roll his eyes every time Tony says it near him. Tony has recently discovered the unbridled joy that comes with being the most embarrassing adult in a child’s life and has decided to fully embrace it. Such habits include mispronouncing names of treasured friends, wildly misusing memes, and offering unwanted advice in the most extravagant way possible. Tony’s used each one on the kid, first as a way to dial back Peter’s hero worship, and then because seeing Peter groan in teenage despair before fleeing to find Rhodey or Pepper has become one of his new favorite pastimes. Rhodey has started in on the teasing, too.

"Ned told me he left just before seven," May replies, half to herself. “We had another argument, but it wasn’t serious. Not as serious as last week, at least.”

"I'm sure he's fine." A thought occurs to him and he smirks. "Doesn't that terrifying girl he talks to live close by? You sure he hasn't ducked off to see her? That was a favorite move of mine back in the day--fight with Dad and then sneak off to my girlfriend’s place."

“Reasonably sure. He would have said something or texted me a blatant lie, at the very least. Even when we argue like this, he doesn’t just disappear. It’s not like him,” May replies, tense and tired. “He isn't out on patrol, is he?”

Tony looks over his shoulder at the spider suit laid out across one of the work tables nearby. “No. We’re still patching up his suit from that pigeon incident. Which, by the way, I have a video of if you’d like to see it.”

“No, not right now,” she says. “Just, if you hear from him, tell him to call me?”

“You got it,” Tony says. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon, May.”

“You’re probably right. Thanks.” With that, May hangs up and the line goes dead.

Tony goes back to work. Or tries to. The phone call drags more and more of his attention away from his current project, and since said current project involves levels of electricity more than capable of reducing him to fine sand, that’s something of a problem. 

Three minutes after May ends the phone call, Tony lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves his stool away from the delicate work laid out on the table in front of him. He pulls off his safety glasses and runs his hand through his hair. Dammit, he can't focus. 

“FRIDAY, call the kid,” Tony says, idly wondering when exactly his regular anxiety grew to include the welfare of a sixteen year old vigilante. A sixteen year old vigilante who may yet be the death of him, judging by how incredibly _stubborn_ the kid is. Also one apparently going through a delayed fit of teenage rebellion, which is healthy, but also nerve wracking.

Of course, the answer to that is promptly supplied by his own memories of drafting the kid into a fight he had no business being in, but he ignores that. If he wanted to be introspective, he would drink. And he gave up drinking awhile ago.

FRIDAY makes the connection. The phone doesn’t ring at all; it goes straight to voicemail. Okay, weird. The kid is practically glued to his phone; he wouldn’t turn it off. And the phone he gave Peter has enough battery life to last literal months without a charge. It’s possible he broke it, though; it wouldn’t be the first time. The kid is almost as strong as Steve Rogers and he still has that teenage clumsiness haunting him, despite his enhancements. Growth spurts wreck everyone’s sense of balance and Peter is no more immune to that than anyone else.

”Hey, kid, it's me. You really should call your aunt. She's starting to get worried. Add me to the list, if you’d like. I know things have been rough lately, but that doesn’t mean you should pull a disappearing act on us. Call me as soon as you get this.” He ends the call. "FRI, send Peter a text message to top it off. Tell him to call me.”

"Got it, boss."

Satisfied, Tony goes back to work. Peter's a good kid; he'll pop up later and apologize profusely for worrying May. It isn't like the kid is going off on a patrol tonight, after all. That's where all of the danger lies in Peter's life at this point. The kid probably caught a wild hair and wandered off for an hour or two.

Frankly, a little teenage rebellion is good for the soul. 

He makes a mental note to call again when he hits a stopping point in his latest project. 

*** * ***

Tony staggers out of the lab several hours later, intent on making a smoothie and then crawling into bed for a few hours after a nice shower. He might have time for a cat nap before Rhodey comes over for lunch. Unless he's coming over for breakfast, in which case Tony can probably expect an exasperated look and maybe a breakfast burrito to the head. It’s been awhile since he’s been sucked into a project like this.

The nanobots work like a dream. A suit is still a far off proposition until he’s able to create more nanobots, but the gauntlet will work well enough for now. He’s actually pretty proud of it, and he can’t wait to show it off to Peter when the kid comes by during the weekend. The kid still looks at him like he’s an actual superhero and Tony would be lying if he said he doesn’t appreciate or need that. The feeling is very much mutual, too.

Even if the kid is causing more grey hairs.

FRIDAY clicks on the TV in the living area, switching to a local news channel. Tony's gotten into the habit of checking the morning news for Spiderman updates these days. It isn't necessary today, of course. He has the spider suit, and the kid spent the night doing homework last night. But it's a habit, and he's gotten used to listening to the morning anchors after waking up or on his way to go to bed.

He starts to put together his smoothie, half listening to a news report on the holoscreen TV in the living area behind him.

“--police found the headless body of a man wanted for questioning regarding a dozen murders early this morning. They believe his death is connected to the botched attempt o the mayor’s life last week--”

Tony snorts. That had been a shitshow that he almost got involved with. The mayor has started making moves against the mafia families that infest the less desirable parts of the city, and it’s put a massive price on his head. Tony isn’t surprised to hear the would-be assassin is dead; the mafia doesn’t take kindly to failure, and decapitation is a time honored form of intimidation. 

The mob really has been more active lately. He'll have to talk to the kid about that---

"Boss, May Parker is on the line. She says it's urgent," FRIDAY says.

Tony checks the time. It's six in the morning; Peter won't have class until seven thirty. The kid's probably still asleep. "Put her through."

May's voice comes in quick and vaguely panicked. "Tony, is Peter with you?"

"Uh, no,” Tony answers slowly. “I haven't seen him since Thursday. What's going on?"

The line goes quiet, save for a shaky breath. "He never came home last night."

Tony takes a moment, his mind shaking off his fatigue with a sharp wave of anxiety. "Is he with Ned? Did he stay over?"

Logically, he knows that’s not likely. May wouldn’t call him unless it’s an emergency. But Christ, he hopes this is just one big misunderstanding.

"No, I just called Ned's mother. He left last night around seven, and he’s not at school." May sounds crushed; guilt and fear thick in her voice and they raise Tony's anxiety another three notches on his 'About to Lose His Shit' scale. "I'm going to call the police. If you hear from him--"

"I'll call you as soon as he shows up, promise." _Right after I'm done throttling him for making us panic. Dammit, kid, you had better be hiding in your girlfriend’s bedroom or something._

"Thanks." The line clicks off.

Tony is silent for barely half a second, smoothie and nap completely forgotten. He should have done this last night when May called. "FRIDAY, track Peter's phone, show me where he is."

"Peter's phone is not currently powered on, boss. I can't track it."

"What do you mean it's not _powered_? The battery I put in that thing could power a house for a month." Tony scowls. "Fine. Show me his last location."

"Peter's phone last pinged in this location in Queens, between an office building and an independently owned deli called Maverick's Mysterious Meats." A holoscreen pops up in front of Tony, tracing out the shape of the street and the buildings that line either side. A red dot at the head of an alleyway appears. "The shop shut down last month due to health concerns. The office belongs to Trask Laboratories, recently bought out by the Life Foundation."

Well, that's certainly not helping his anxiety. Another thought occurs to him. "Dump all the information you have for his movements within the last twenty four hours."

A green line appears, starting from Peter’s apartment, then to a deli, then to school, where it leaves a meandering trail around the building. At three o’ clock, the line leaves the school, heads back to the deli, and then heads straight to Ned Leeds’ apartment. The line stays put until around seven, the digits marking the time flipping over one another, and then leaves Ned’s place and starts to head back to Peter’s apartment.

And then it stops, takes a sharp left, and goes down the street to Peter’s last location. When the line reaches the head of an alley, it goes fuzzy. Several green dots trail in a jagged fashion down the alley behind the butcher shop. 

Tony frowns. "FRI, what's with these dots? It's supposed to be a continuous line."

"Peter’s phone began to lose connection around 7:13PM last night. The dots represent brief moments when his phone reconnected with the network before it failed altogether," FRIDAY says.

This doesn’t make sense. That phone is within range of no less than six cell towers and Peter’s phone is supposed to switch to Tony’s personal network if it’s out of range of the standard terrestrial network. The only reason the phone would fail is if it physically _can’t_ make a connection. Something must have damaged it or removed the power source.

Not a comforting thought.

“A localized EMP maybe?” Tony wonders aloud. He sighs, pacing. “No, that’s not right. His phone’s shielded like my armor. An EMP blast strong enough to disrupt it like this would have taken out the entire block, and that _definitely_ would have gotten some attention. This doesn't make sense. FRIDAY, send me a suit.” 

The elevator dings and opens, and the quiet hydraulic hiss of mechanical leg braces fills the room. Rhodey appears not long after, holding up a bag in one hand as he approaches the kitchen. 

“Hey, I grabbed us a couple of breakfast burritos. Vision burned down the kitchen in the Compound, by the way, so he’s going to go buy a new one--” He stops, takes in Tony’s posture and expression and drops the bag on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

“The kid never came home last night,” Tony says. “If he’s smart, he’s in class, and trying to think up some dumb excuse as to why he never went home last night.”

“What do you need me to do?” Rhodey asks.

"Come with me," Tony responds.

Rhodey nods, summoning his own suit with a quick tap on his smart watch. "We're definitely going to embarrass the shit out of him when we find him hiding in his girlfriend’s closet, you know that right?"

"Oh, I'm going to make it a goddamn _event_."

The window closest to them opens to allow the two suits inside the tower. They waste no time, climbing into their suits and flying towards Queens.

*** * ***

“Something’s off about this,” Rhodey says quietly, drifting through the alleys. The sky is grey and the air is damp. It’s one of those dreary fall days, cold and sharp, with a wind blowing through the city strong enough to force Rhodey and Tony to compensate against it. The pavement below them is clear of trash, dumpsters, and trash cans. “There’s not enough people around here for the middle of the day. And everything in this alley is too clean.”

Tony agrees with that assessment. This is the shadier side of Queens, and normally it plays host to a number of low level criminals slipping through crowds. Today, as of seven in the morning, the alleys and streets are peaceful. Some are practically empty, which is extremely weird for a New York street; there’s usually some litter somewhere. Tony’s frustration and worry are starting to build.

“Boss, May Parker is on the line,” FRIDAY says.

“Answer.” A light indicates the phone is connected. “Is he back?”

“No, I was hoping you found him,” May says, exhausted and tense. “I just spoke with MJ. Peter isn't with her either.” She pauses for a moment, then presses on. “I’ve got the name of a detective. She’s going to interview Ned now, but she wants to talk to you, too.”

“Me?”

“She had Peter’s phone records pulled,” May explains. “She saw your number.”

"Let her know I'll be at the Tower, and I’ll catch up with you after I’m done with them," Tony replies. The line clicks off. "I'm heading back, Rhodey. I’ve got a date with New York’s finest."

"I'll keep looking,” Rhodey promises. “Not sure if I’m going to find anything. This is the cleanest alleyway I’ve ever seen in New York.”

Tony nods, putting more power to his repulsors and flying back to the tower. “FRIDAY, call Happy and send him over to May’s. She might need a gopher until we find the kid. Tell him to get her whatever she needs. Offer an invitation to the tower. She’s not going to take it, but I want her to have the option.”

“On it, boss.”

Tony makes it back to the tower in record time and settles in to wait.

It takes awhile for the detectives to reach him. Hours, in fact, which puts more than a slight damper on Tony’s mood. He paces the common room, pinging Peter’s phone, reviewing the last location information, checking the kid’s movements in and out of the suit in the past week. Rhodey returns to the tower approximately fifteen minutes before Tony loses it completely and steps out of his own suit, walking towards the kitchen that Tony’s camped out of at the moment.

"Anything?" Tony asks, 

"Nothing," Rhodey confirms, sweeping the breakfast burritos into the trash and grabbing a couple of meal bars from a nearby cabinet. They’re peanut butter and chocolate protein, Peter’s favorite. Rhodey nudges a bar over to Tony and quirks a brow at him. “You haven’t eaten in too long. Let’s try not to look like a couple of deranged parents here, man.”

"Too late," Tony mutters, grabbing the protein bar and taking a bite out of it. It's rich, chewy, and it sits in his stomach like a lead ball. 

“Boss, two NYPD detectives are here,” FRIDAY says.

“Send them up,” Tony says, dropping his protein bar and heading for the elevator area. Rhodey is a step behind him, braces whirring quietly as he moves.

The elevator doors open a few seconds later and the detectives walk in. They're both older and look as if they should have retired a few years back. One is a tall, thin man with a heavy brow and thick moustache that fell out of style for most people in the nineties, but it doesn’t seem out of place on him. He eyes the place critically, taking in every detail he can as he and his partner cross towards Tony.

The other is a woman, a bit shorter than Pepper, with red hair fading to blonde and silver. She's more subtle with her observations, but just as keen. She nods to Tony when they get close, stopping at a respectful distance. "Mr. Stark, I'm Detective Brannigan and this is Detective Jones." The tall man, Jones, nods. "I was hoping you had time to talk?"

"I do. We can skip the niceties, by the way. I’m not in the mood to play host today.”

"Good," Brannigan says, pulling out a notebook and pen. It's so old school that Tony is briefly thrown. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"A week ago,” Tony responds. “During his internship day. Last Thursday.”

"Did you speak to him between then and now?"

"Yes. We text. I asked him for some input on a project we're working on."

Jones quirks a brow. "Tony Stark asks a _sixteen year old_ for an opinion on his projects?"

Jones pitches his voice in such a grating tone that it becomes immediately obvious to Tony what he's doing. He doesn't have time for this bad cop, good cop bullshit.

"Peter Parker is more than just some _sixteen year old_ ," Tony says flatly. "I wouldn't have picked him as my intern if he wasn't capable of keeping up with the work I do. And he is."

"And what kind of work is that?" Brannigan asks.

"The confidential kind that has nothing to do with his disappearance."

Brannigan doesn’t seem entirely convinced by that, but moves on. “Has he called you or visited you since last week?”

“No.”

"Has he mentioned any trouble at school?"

"No,” Tony repeats, a bit less sure. Honestly, he’s never asked. It’s never occurred to him, and Peter doesn’t talk about school around him in any real detail. That was firmly in May’s territory, and while Tony would happily provide advice, the truth is that he wouldn’t know how to handle standard high school problems if his life depended on it. He doesn’t have any experience with them, and those social and academic milestones are a complete mystery to him.

"Mentioned any bullies? Teachers giving him a hard time?"

"He once mentioned some kid named Flash giving him a hard time, but not lately.” Has the kid been more quiet than usual? Tony frowns, running the last few visits over in his mind. There's definitely been less chatter, but Tony had thought that was a side effect of Peter becoming more comfortable around him. 

“Eugene Thompson?” At Tony’s nod Brannigan continues. “The one he got into a fight with the other day?”

“A fight? What?” Tony asks, baffled.

“Mr. Parker broke Mr. Thompson’s hand after school on Monday afternoon,” Brannigan says. “I understand Mr. Thompson’s surgery took place yesterday.”

Tony stares at her, dumbfounded. “That can’t be right.”

“Ten people witnessed it. I can assume he didn’t talk to you about that?”

“No. And if there was a fight, then Peter didn’t start it. He’s not that kind of kid,” Tony retorts.

“You sure about that?” Jones asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tony snaps. “Whatever happened, it was probably started by Thompson.” _Jesus, kid, what the hell is wrong with you._

Brannigan keeps writing, giving Tony a moment to calm down. “When was the last time Peter came in for his internship?”

“Last week. Thursday. Like I said.” Christ, they’re going to ask him that three more times. That’s how cops work. Ask the same questions five times in different ways, just to see how the story changes.

“Did you notice any odd behavior from him?”

“Like what?” The kid has been in a mood. Maybe a little paler than usual, with dark bags under his eyes. Typical for him when he’s close to exams and trying to balance extra study time with his patrols. Tony hadn’t considered it unusual at the time, but now he’s not so sure.

“His aunt has said he’s been acting strangely lately. Talking to himself in his sleep, or when he’s half awake, irritability, and otherwise just acting out of usual. She heard him having an argument with himself while coming in the front door a few days ago.”

Tony stares at Brannigan blankly. “No. No, he hasn’t done anything like that around me. He’s been slightly less chatty than usual, but that’s all.”

Tony doesn’t like the sound of that at all, and the fact that he hadn’t _noticed_ gnaws at him. Christ, he spends so much time kid, he should’ve picked up on it. Maybe Peter's been hit with the stress of trying to be a high school superhero? Or, well, mental illness. Schizophrenia likely doesn’t discriminate between enhanced and baseline humans, and Peter’s edging into that age range where it can appear; it’s entirely possible Peter’s going through a more mundane issue. Which is fine; it’s treatable. Tony’s no expert in mental health (obviously), but he can certainly find the best doctors in the world if the kid needs them.

Brannigan nods, writing something down in her notebook. “Mrs. Parker said Peter was wearing a leather jacket you gave him the day he disappeared. Do you know which one that would be?”

“It’s one he found around the lab, actually.” Steve Rogers’ old leather jacket, in fact. It’s comically large on the kid, but it’s warm, and Peter needed to wear something more substantial than the flimsy hoodie he’d brought with him a few months ago. The kid’s worn it regularly since then. “Brown leather jacket, cotton lining, probably two sizes too big for him. It has S. Rogers written on the tag."

The detective quirks her eyebrow. “Does that belong to who I think it does?”

Tony shrugs. "Finders, keepers. The kid’s coat tore at school and he needed a warm coat. It's what I had on hand."

Brannigan nods, scribbling down a few quick notes. "Okay, thank you, Mr. Stark. That’s all we need for now. We might contact you again if we have any follow up questions."

"What happens now?"

"We start our search. If we're lucky, we'll find him in the next forty eight hours,” Brannigan replies, then adds, “If we’re _very_ lucky, he comes home on his own. That happens more often than not, fortunately.”

"And if you aren't lucky?"

"We find nothing at all. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Stark, but we don’t always have good luck finding troubled kids--”

"Excuse me, did you just call Peter Parker _troubled?_ " Tony's fury is both instant and blinding. A result of his exhaustion and anxiety.

"Yes, I did," Brannigan says patiently. "I’ve already done some homework on him, and at first glance, he fits the pattern of a runaway.”

“He has nothing to run away _from,_ ” Tony retorts. “I’m interested to hear about this so-called pattern.”

Brannigan begins to list off each item one by one, using her fingers to illustrate each point. Her tone never rises, staying neutral and even. “He's lost more family than most people have in this city. Neighbors see him climbing out of his window nearly every evening and back into it after midnight. Students and teachers at his school report that he appears pale and sleeps through his classes on a routine basis. He's dropped out of almost all of his extracurriculars and barely shows up for the one he remains in. He's known as a loser in his class and recently started a fight with another student. All of that adds up to a _troubled teenager._ And troubled teenagers sometimes run away, regardless of who they work for. Especially the smart ones like Mr. Parker."

“I can already tell you he doesn’t fit your pattern,” Tony says coldly.

“You’re right. He could have been kidnapped,” Brannigan replies. “Do you have any reason to think that’s the case?”

Tony hesitates. “No.”

The look he catches from both detectives for that brief hesitation is impressive. Both of them seem to become hyper aware.

“You sure about that?” Jones asks. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tony retorts. If Peter _is_ kidnapped (an angle he genuinely hadn’t considered yet), then the NYPD certainly won’t be any help.

“If that changes, let us know,” Brannigan says, pocketing her notebook and pulling out a business card. She offers it to Tony. “Call us, day or night, if something changes, Mr. Stark.”

Tony takes the card. It has the name, phone number, and email addresses for both of the detectives listed on a plain white background with the NYPD logo printed in the corner. “I’ll do that.”

“Good. We have a few more places to check--” Brannigan begins, checking her watch.

Tony pockets the business card. “Right. Just take the elevator back down.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Stark,” Jone says, turning and heading back to the elevator. Brannigan gives him one last thoughtful look before turning to follow her partner to the elevator. 

There’s a brief awkward silence before the elevator doors close and the detectives leave the penthouse. The moment they’re out of sight, Tony speaks.

“FRIDAY, check my messages for ransom notes.”

There’s a brief pause as the AI sorts through the messages. Even a hyper advanced AI needs a minute to search through all of the letters, emails, and pings sent his way.

“No dice, boss. Only the usual fanmail and death threats,” FRIDAY answers.

That’s disturbing. Not the death threats--he’s long accepted those as a fact of life. If this _is_ a kidnapping, then someone should’ve sent him a mocking message; anyone looking to kidnap Peter would likely know about his internship, after all. Unless the kidnapper didn’t target Peter for his connection to Tony.

In some ways, that scares him more.

Another thought occurs to him. He turns to Rhodey. “Anything weird going on in your life right now?”

“Aside from the usual? No, not really,” Rhodey answers, shrugging. “I’m still on leave, aside from the Accords amendment meetings.”

“I’d like you to stay here, then,” Tony says. “Just in case someone _is_ targeting people close to me.”

“Like I’m going to leave when Pete’s gone missing,” Rhodey replies dryly. He stands up and stretches. “I’m going back out there to look. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Be safe. Call me if anything happens.”

“I’ll check in with FRIDAY every hour or so,” Rhodey promises, stepping back into his suit. “Promise me you’ll take a nap or something? You look like hell, man.”

“Later. I’ve gotta make a phone call first,” Tony replies, walking with Rhodey as he heads back to the open window.

Rhodey squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, then steps aside before launching himself through the open window. FRIDAY silently closes it after him and Tony finds himself alone in the penthouse. He starts to pace, mind moving a mile a minute.

“Call Pepper.”

She answers on the fourth ring. “Tony? I’m in the middle of a meeting--”

“The kid’s missing,” Tony says, pacing. “He never came home last night. The cops just came by. They think he’s a goddamn _runaway_.”

Pepper is silent for a moment. “I’ll be there in an hour. Are you alone?”

“Rhodey just went back out to search for him. Happy’s with May.”

“Good.” There’s genuine relief in her voice. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You have a way to call your suit, right?” Tony asks. “Just in case?”

“Yes. Always,” Pepper says slowly. “Why?”

“If someone is targeting the people I care about, I want to make sure you have a way to escape or fight back. You’re harder to get to than the kid, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

“I know. I’ll be fine,” Pepper says gently. “Listen, I’ve got to get back into the meeting. You can have FRIDAY tap into the security feeds from the Tower and watch, if you want. When I finish, I’ll call you back and stay on the phone until I get home. Okay?”

Leave it to Pepper to think of a good way to keep his anxiety from overwhelming him. He’s suddenly very grateful for Pepper Potts. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Good idea.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Pepper says, hanging up.

FRIDAY silently recreates the boardroom Pepper is standing outside of in Tony’s living room using holograms. Tony can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can at least see a live feed of what’s going on in there, and he can see Pepper walk into the room and resume the meeting.

He pulls out the flip phone he keeps in his pocket, considering it for a long moment. The screen is tiny, the resolution is pathetic, but the connection shows full bars. His thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button for a few seconds before he sighs, flips it closed and puts it back into his pocket.

Forty eight hours. They’ll find him by then. Probably sooner than that.

***

Forty eight hours come and go.

They don't find him.

***

Tony paces Peter's room. It's just as Peter left it when he last stayed at the Tower; messy, disorganized, with shoes and clothes strewn across the floor and a bed full of tangled sheets. If he knew what time it is, he would have retreated to his lab hours ago, but time has stopped making sense. Peter is his grounding to reality in a lot of ways--his day marches to the kid's rhythm during the week. School, lunch, patrol, and lab time on every other FRIDAY with the occasional weekend stay and 'family' dinner once a month with Peter, May, Happy, Pepper, and Tony.

He knows it's Monday. He knows the Rogues are at the Tower. He knows he has a meeting with them this afternoon. He's pretty sure he's long overdue for it, but can't quite bring himself to care.

He knows it's been five days since Peter went missing and there are no leads. The words _forty eight hours_ play over and over in his head and the knowledge that the statistical probability tied to finding him alive and whole has drastically decreased to almost nothing.

He knows how May feels, at least in a pale imitation sort of way. She's at her apartment, patiently waiting for Peter's return. Tony’s given her space, but every now and then she reaches out with a quick text to check in with him and remind him to take care of himself. In some ways, her understanding hurts worse than the fury he expected from her. She's treating him like glass, as if afraid he'll destroy himself over this.

Well, she's right to worry. Because he will.

Why hadn’t he gone out to look for the kid that first night? He should’ve done more. He should have started searching the _moment_ she called. Instead, he was so wrapped up in his little project that he didn't even notice the time.

He's half listening to the news playing on the TV mounted to the wall as he paces, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he traces a route around a tattered notebook and one of Peter's many, _many_ backpacks.

"---Stark Industries intern, Peter Parker, has been missing since last Wednesday. Police are asking that anyone with information on his whereabouts contact them immediately. Tony Stark has offered a substantial reward for any information leading to his safe return--"

That had been a spur of the moment decision that will very likely bite him in the ass after everything is said and done. The tabloids are already running rampant with the 'Secret Heir' angle, and clamoring for comment. May hadn't exactly approved at first, but anything that would bring Peter home is on the table. He reminds himself to send Pepper a message apologizing for the inevitable headache that move will cause her when she gets wind of it in Malibu.

The news moves on from reporting Peter's disappearance and straight into wild theories of his relationship with Tony. They spend twice as long on this than they do on Peter's disappearance, replacing the teenager's awkward grinning photo with one of Tony's better photoshoots, then comparing them side by side.

Tony scowls, half listening to some smarmy fifty year old man detail Tony's wild youth and the likelihood of Peter being his secret son. He'll have to prepare the kid for the harsh realities of dealing with the paparazzi when he gets back. 

If he gets back.

God, please come back.

He's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't realize he has an audience.

Which is why his reaction to Steve Rogers appearing beside him, seemingly from nowhere, is to whirl around with his gauntlet aimed straight at Steve's chest. Behind Steve, Natasha, Clint, and Sam tense, hands drifting towards their own weapons.

Steve freezes, holding his hands up. "Tony. You're late for the meeting. FRIDAY said you were here."

Tony stares at him blankly for a moment before the cogs start to turn in his mind and he remembers. He drops the gauntlet, flicking his wrist so it shrinks back into his watch. "Meeting. For revising the Accords. Right. Yeah." He takes in a deep breath. "Look, today really isn't a good day for it--"

"I don't think we can put it off, Tony," Steve replies carefully, dropping his hands down to his sides. "We've got some leeway with Ross gone, but it won't last."

Steve is right, but that doesn't make Tony any less agreeable to the idea. He's _busy._ He doesn't have time for this, and frankly, he'd be a detriment to the process at this point. He's about to snap at the man when the holoscreen nearest to Tony clicks on, projecting a near lifelike image beside him. 

It's Peter. He's wearing a cheesy science pun t-shirt and has a small drone sitting on the table in front of him. At first, Tony assumes it's a live feed, and he starts to feel a wave of relief when he notices the date in the corner. His heart sinks, and he clenches his jaw. Whatever this is, it was recorded more than two weeks ago, during the last weekend Peter stayed at the Tower.

"Hey, old man!" Peter says cheerfully. A nickname Tony earned after calling Peter 'kid' one too many times. "So, okay, I know you said I needed a project for my MIT application. And I think I found something that's kinda useful? I hope so, anyway. So, um, this is S.A.A.M., search, assist, and medicate--we'll work on the name later--and he's a rescue bot. I based him off of Droney's design and borrowed a few ideas from Falcon's Red Wing."

Peter taps out a few commands on his phone, and the little drone comes to life. It lets out a pleasant beep and slowly raises up from the lab table, hovering in front of Peter. Two round, bright blue LED lights click on, imitating eyes. Tony can see twelve things wrong with the design at first glance, but that does nothing to stamp out how impressed he is with the little project.

Peter continues speaking, guiding the drone around as it steadily picks up speed and dodges around an obstacle course put together to test the bot's agility. 

"He can map out local areas, notify nearby first responders of dangerous changes in the air like temperature or toxins and, um, I modified the web fluid we made last month. The stuff that turned out wrong. It's actually a good vehicle for pain medicine that Dr. Banner talked about in one of his papers! Just spray it over a burn or an open wound and it works wonders on infectious bacteria. I put a tube of it in--Wait, S.A.A.M, slow down--"

The drone, which has slowly gained speed as Peter talks, suddenly speeds straight up to the ceiling and crashes into it with a loud clatter, shattering one of the lights. The drone and light fixture both fall to the floor behind Peter, who turns to stare awkwardly at the mess behind himself.

There's a brief moment of silence, and then Peter sheepishly turns around to face the camera again. 

"I may have had some trouble with the flight plans? Anyway, I know you're busy, but let's work on it this weekend if we can! Or not, that's cool, too. Also, uh, I'll fix the light. Promise."

The screen clicks off and Tony isn't sure if he's going to scream or cry. God, he's missed the kid's voice. "FRIDAY, what the hell was that?"

"Peter asked me to send that video to you today after your meeting with the Avengers," FRIDAY replies. "You were scheduled to have custody of him this weekend. This was his idea of a project during his stay, as you did not have one scheduled."

That sparks so many warring emotions that Tony doesn’t know where to begin.

"Don't show me any other videos of him unless I tell you to," Tony bites back, clenching his fists. His voice is wounded and ragged at the edges. "Just...put them in the vault for now."

"Understood, boss." The AI almost sounds apologetic.

Tony closes his eyes, reaching up to roughly rub them with his hand. The TV behind him replays the news stories of the day, leading with Peter's disappearance. The news anchors spend even less time on it than before.

Breathe. He has to remember to breathe or he'll pass out and that is the _last thing_ he needs. Not when the police could call at any moment, not when the Rogues are all staring at him--

"How long has your kid been missing?" Clint asks quietly. Tony pulls his hands away from his face and is shocked to see the Rogues surrounding him, watching him with strange looks on their faces.

It takes his exhausted mind a moment to realize that they're looking at him with varying degrees of sympathy. Clint in particular is watching him with something perilously close to understanding, while Steve seems to notice how childlike the room is seemingly for the first time. Tony huffs out a breath. 

"Five days. He was walking home from a friend's place and never made it," Tony replies, voice low and harsh. His shoulders slump, and he's suddenly aware of how tired he is. His arms feel heavy and his eyes are full of gritty sand. When did he last sleep? Thursday? "He just vanished. He doesn't do that. He's not like me. He's responsible. He's good."

Steve frowns at that last part.

"Ransom?" Natasha asks, walking over to stand beside Clint. She looks around the room slowly, her gaze pausing at a framed photo of Tony and Peter. Tony has an arm slung around Peter's shoulders, a true grin (not the press ready smile he usually has) on his face, peace sign in full view. Peter is smiling at the camera with that innocent, earnest grin of his that's somehow enhanced by the bunny ears he has propped up behind Tony's head."Has anyone made any demands?"

"No, obviously not, or I would've paid it already. I'd pay anything to get him back," Tony snaps. At Natasha's quirked brow he takes in a deep breath, counts to ten, and continues in a much steadier voice. He hopes the look he gives her serves as an apology. She relaxes and gives him a barely perceptible nod. Apology accepted. "It's been silent. Happy, Rhodey, and I have been tearing the city apart looking for him. Pepper has private investigator firms looking for him. The police are looking. We haven't had any luck."

Natasha nods, taking in the information. "Last location?"

"Why do you care?" Tony asks, turning to face her fully. Behind him, the news has moved on, and the anchor's droning news cadence starts a story about a strange object falling from the sky last week. "You're here for the Accords. This doesn't concern you. Any of you."

"Because your kid is missing, man," Sam says quietly, as if it were that easy.

"You don't even know him," Tony retorts.

Natasha tilts her head at Tony, quirking a brow. "So?"

"We might be able to help," Steve adds. The disbelieving look Tony shoots him is hard enough that Steve raises his hands and repeats himself. "We can help with this, Tony."

Tony eyes them suspiciously, saying nothing. He did consider calling them in, but he’s hesitated every time.

"If my kids went missing and I thought you could help, even after all this shit, I'd call you," Clint says. "If our positions were reversed, would you help me?"

Tony scowls at him. "Don't insult me. You know I would."

Clint quirks a brow at him. “Exactly.”

Tony stares back at him. 

Okay, maybe it is that easy. 

He still hesitates, wary of relying on them again. Wary of trusting them. But they might be able to help, and Tony would set himself on fire on live television if it meant Peter comes home safely. He can risk trusting the people he used to call friends. At least for this one thing.

He takes in a deep breath. "FRIDAY, show us Peter's last known location." 

A holoscreen pops up, detailing a street in Queens. Tony points at a dull glowing icon on the screen and herky-jerky movements leading down the alleyway. 

"He was here. Between a deli and an old lab. I've done everything but dig up the road and take the buildings apart brick by brick. And I'm not ruling those out yet." Tony sighs. “His phone’s been dead ever since he disappeared. I tried to remotely power it on and track it. No luck. Something must have destroyed it.”

"Someone grabbed him," Natasha says, tracing the outline. 

"What's with the weird zigzags?" Sam asks.

"He fought back," Natasha replies. She points at one switchback line. “Someone threw him into the alley, and cornered him. Look at this line--it’s almost back to the street. He either got free of them or fought them hard enough to drag them into the street with him."

That’s an unpleasant thought. “He should’ve activated his watch and alerted me. That’s why I gave it to him in the first place.” Tony mutters darkly. The watch went dark the moment Peter went missing. “Headstrong, stubborn little--”

“He may not have had time,” Natasha says quietly. “This looks like a professional job, and teenagers aren’t exactly difficult targets. If it _is_ a professional job, then the fact that he was able to fight them at all is impressive.”

Tony starts to argue against her, as if it’s imperative that he impress upon her just how _good_ Peter is at getting out of tight situations, but ultimately stops himself. What would be the point? She doesn’t know Peter. 

“Maybe. He can expect more self defense lessons when he gets back, whether he likes it or not.”

“I’ll teach him myself,” Natasha replies. “With Clint’s help.”

Clint nods. “I can give the kid a few pointers.” He looks at the map projected on the holoscreen, eyes roving over the street and buildings as he memorizes every detail. Clint's always had an eye for small details. "What about his friend? Have you checked him out?"

Tony snorts, fighting back a laugh. "Ned's incapable of hurting anyone. Least of all Pete." 

Sam doesn’t look convinced. "You sure? Kids can get jealous."

Tony sighs. "Peter saved him from bullies when they were young--if you can call taking on four guys bigger than you and getting your asthmatic ass handed to you _saving--_ and Ned's stuck by him ever since. He's devastated. Hell, he's been flooding social media and my phone, begging for updates. I'm pretty sure he's hacked the NYPD twice."

Mostly because Tony's already hacked into their mainframe himself and saw hints of Ned's entries. They were cleverly done entries, too. Tony sent him an email with a few tips for next time, and then followed it up with a reminder that hacking into government databases is a crime and he should probably call Tony if he gets caught.

"Does Peter have any enemies?" Sam asks.

Tony hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. Peter really doesn't have any enemies; Toomes is locked up for good and Peter has kept to low grade crimes since then. No one is going to build a doomsday device to take out a Spiderman known for catching bike thieves and helping little old ladies cross the street. 

"He's sixteen and a terminal nerd. He hasn't lived long enough to get those."

"Bullies?" Steve asks quietly, as if unsure.

"One. Some jackass named Flash. He's clean, from what I've been able to dig up. A smarmy little prick with a corporate shark of a father, but they aren't the killing type." A brief pause. "Also, what the hell kind of bullies did you have in the thirties, Jesus."

"Guys were a bit rougher on skinny kids like me back then," Steve says, looking at the same photo Natasha found earlier. 

"Yeah, well. Peter knows how to handle himself." Mostly true. The kid seems to run on instinct and hard won experience over traditional training, which is something of a problem. "Happy's taught him a few things about boxing. The kid's rung his bell a few times."

Peter also immediately apologized for it when he did. The indignant and exasperated look on Happy's face and the mildly panicked expression on Peter's had been priceless. Tony has a picture of the scene on rotation in his digital photo frame in his office.

"So, we have a kid with good friends, no enemies, known for being reliable and intelligent," Natasha says, idly nudging a stray lego building on Peter's desk. "That leaves you."

Tony frowns at her. "Me?"

"Pissed anyone off lately?" Natasha asks.

"No, not more than usual--" He goes quiet. "Ross."

Natasha leans back against Peter's desk, tilting her head.

"I may have leaked a few of the more damning emails on his phone," Tony says, idly fidgeting with the nanobot case on his wrist. "And maybe pressured a few individuals in the Department of Justice and Homeland Security into looking at Ross. You know. Called in a few favors with the President."

Steve stares at him in disbelief. "That was you?"

"Well, not _me_ personally, more like the FBI, the US Marshals, and the Secret Service working together in a special joint task force based out of Homeland Security. I just sent them a few memos,” Tony says, shrugging. “Gently encouraged them, so to speak.”

“You blackmailed them,” Natasha says, hiding a small smirk.

“Now _that_ is a very loaded word, Ms. Romanoff,” Tony replies. “The Director of Homeland Security is a very reasonable man who just needed a bit of encouragement. And encouragement takes many forms when you’re dealing with a man of that caliber.”

She doesn't bother to hide her smirk now, and there's an approving glint to her eye. "You've learned something from me after all."

“You can be a questionable influence on me every now and then, I guess,” Tony admits.

“A man like Ross has a lot of allies. How many were you able to take down with him?” Clint asks.

Tony takes in a deep breath. “More than I’d hoped for, less than I like. I was working under a time limit, unfortunately.” Natasha gives him another look and he sighs. “Ross started getting demanding. He wanted you guys arrested or dead, and he was heavily leaning on the latter. As much as you've all pisssed me off, I don’t want you dead or maimed, and he was interested in both. Then he made this vague threat towards Pete and told me what he planned to do to Bruce when he comes back and I may have lost my temper and set him up to take a very deserved fall. Turns out the guy's kind of an asshole, who knew."

“Damn,” Sam mutters, half to himself. “Wish you’d had that insight a few years ago.”

Tony rankles at the comment, but forces himself to let it go. Sam isn’t _wrong._ In fact, the man is right more often than not. A lot like Cap in a way, which is equal parts grating and reassuring. But Sam and Steve hadn’t been looking at the Accords from his perspective, hadn’t bothered to try, and that is a wound that’s still sore around the edges.

Clint looks at Tony with wary approval, and that’s even weirder, given that their recent interactions have been, at best, distant.

“By the way, you’re all still technically assholes for not listening to me to begin with. Just so that’s out there,” Tony says, uncomfortable by the measuring looks from the others. 

“Send me Peter’s last known coordinates and the names of any of Ross’ friends you weren’t able to find,” Natasha says, choosing to ignore Tony’s comment. “Clint?”

“Yep,” Clint replies, hopping off of Peter’s dresser and following her out of the room.

Sam trades a look with Steve and then offers Tony a small nod before ducking out of the room.

And suddenly Tony is left alone with Steve. He tries to hide his discomfort, fails, and settles for crossing his arms and looking away. The silence stretches for one unbearable moment before Tony speaks again. 

“He’s a big fan of yours, you know. I mean, I’m still his favorite, obviously, but he’s got this shirt of your shield he wears all the time. I gave him one of your old leather jackets, too. You can fight him over getting it back, but I’ll warn you now, that kid is about as sneaky as Nat when it comes to fighting.”

Steve smiles, soft and a little unsure. “He can keep it.” He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell us about him before?”

Tony sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I found him shortly after you went rogue, in the middle of the Sokovia Accords mess. Not exactly a good time to make introductions, is it?”

“No, I guess not,” Steve says. “Ross knew about him?”

“Yes. And no,” Tony starts to pace Peter’s room again. “Ross thinks Pete’s my kid. He isn’t, not biologically, I just sort of took him under my wing after I found him doing some unbelievably stupid shit and went to talk to him about it. He still lives with his aunt who, by the way, I would want on my side if I ever have to fight aliens again.” 

The more he paces, the further agitated he becomes, his frustration with Peter’s disappearance mingling with volatile memories of the Accords disaster. His exhaustion is making him chatty, more than he would be normally. 

“The kid’s enhanced, by the way. So, me being the hypocrite I am, I hid him away because, hey, guess what, hastily written laws more often than not turn into a total shitshow when it comes to the civil rights of people _not_ constantly in the limelight. At the time, I wasn’t thinking about enhanced kids, I was thinking about people like us. And then that kind of bit me in the ass and you weren’t even around to tell me you told me so. Which is rude, for the record. You’re supposed to calmly tell me I’m being a dumbass and help take some of the pressure off Rhodey. He’s pulling double duty these days.”

Steve watches him for a long moment and then nods, standing up. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t exactly at my best either.” He sighs. “Peggy died the day you brought up the Accords. Then everything with Bucky... How far would you go to protect Rhodey?”

Tony pauses, considers, frowns and rubs his face. “Fuck.” He frowns. “That doesn’t change what he did, Rogers. Or the fact that you knew.”

“I know. If it makes any difference at all, I’m sorry I never told you.” Steve stays quiet for another moment before pressing on. “I know things aren’t right between us, Tony, but I’d like them to be. Eventually.”

Tony continues to pace, but slows down his steps. Steve is being too fucking earnest for him right now, and it’s annoying. But it’s also necessary; this has been allowed to sit too long. He pulls the flip phone from his pocket and sets it on Peter’s desk.

“You kept it with you?”

“Every day since you sent it to me,” Tony says. He stops, sighs, and presses on. “I saw what they did to the Winter Soldier, you know. How they brainwashed him.”

Steve goes very, very still.

“I watched it because--fuck, I don’t know. I wanted to see everything he’s done, which is a fucked up thing to do, but I was a little unhinged at the time. I found a recording of it in Natasha’s files. She was using it to track down Hydra agents, the people in charge of their fucking horror show.” Tony suspects, but doesn’t say, that she may have deliberately left it for him to find, too. It’s very possible, if not likely. A ‘subtle’ way of shocking sense into him in the most horrific way possible. She’s never shied away from using horror to her own ends. Anything and everything is a tool to use for a woman like Natasha. 

He presses on, avoiding Steve’s eyes. “I knew nothing good would come of it--at best I’d find what I was looking for and a whole lot of new nightmares. What I found was worse in a lot of ways.”

Tony takes in a deep breath, “I saw enough to give me a different kind of nightmare. I almost think I earned that beating in Siberia.”

Steve winces, glancing away. “You didn’t.” He suddenly looks tired. “Is that why you turned on Ross?”

“It was a factor, along with the others I told everyone about earlier. I wanted to smooth things over, fix things. Like I said I would when this whole Accords thing began, for the record. I’ve even got some groundwork laid out to get your friend pardoned for his crimes.” Tony picks up the phone and idly tosses it back and forth between his hands. He ignores Steve’s astonished and mildly overwhelmed expression, pressing on. “So. I vote we play nice from now on and try this whole ‘communication’ thing out. Preferably before everyone else tries to force it on us. Pepper’s threatened to put us in a get-along shirt before. She might make good on that threat if we lose our shit on each other again.”

“We can’t let that happen. I never want to hurt you again. I never should have done it in the first place,” Steve says solemnly. “Also, Sam and Nat would absolutely never let us hear the end of it and they give me enough trouble as it is.” 

Tony, despite himself, feels a small smirk form. He hesitates for one last moment and then pockets the phone again before offering Steve his hand. “Truce?”

Steve takes it without thinking, gripping his hand warmly. “Truce.”

Tony gives one firm shake before pulling his hand back. “Good. Because, personally, my schedule’s a little packed. I don't have enough time to pencil in a fight with you. And then I’d have to plot out my apology speech to Pepper and help her move out again, break off the engagement and...well, you get the idea.”

“Yeah, and I’d hate to impose,” Steve replies dryly. He glances around the room again, his gaze softening when it falls on the photos scattered around. “Maybe you should take a break and get some coffee? Clint and Nat are going to be busy for awhile. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

Tony’s first instinct is to argue against it, but the reality of his exhaustion makes him a tiny bit more agreeable than normal. “Coffee sounds good. I’ll be in my room. FRIDAY, if _anything_ changes, you need to wake me up, all right?” Another thought occurs to him. “Oh, and let the others know their rooms are all set if they’re staying late. Get them whatever they need.”

“Understood, boss.”

Steve tilts his head. “Our rooms?”

“Yeah. Never got rid of them. Mostly because moving Natasha’s very nice and very expensive book collection into storage seemed like an idea just short of actual suicide. And I didn’t want to look like I was playing favorites, so, y’know.” Tony offers a brief handwave, walking towards the door. “It was just easier this way.”

As usual, Steve seems to read between the lines. Tony might as well have just said, _I hoped you’d all come back and stay here again._ “I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“Right. Don’t touch anything in this room, Rogers. You know how teens get when people mess with their stuff,” Tony says, reluctantly leaving Peter’s room to go to his own just down the hall. He shuts the door behind himself, rubs his eyes, and tries to make sense of what exactly just happened.

He can’t. His brain refuses to process the full magnitude of it. Mostly because he’s been suffering from one long prolonged panic attack since Peter’s disappearance and he simply lacks the emotional and mental processing power necessary to work through all of his emotions.

In previous years, he would have used alcohol to quiet his brain down enough for him to lay down and steal a few spare hours of sleep. Today, he simply sits down in the nice chair beside his bed and tries to center himself. He focuses on the fading sunlight coming through the window, slowing his breathing to a nice and even rhythm, and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

“Tony.”

Tony stirs, wincing at the stiff and painful muscles along his shoulder and neck. He grunts, gradually sitting up, still half asleep. A gentle hand cups his cheek and he catches a whiff of Pepper’s perfume. “Pep?”

“I just got back from May’s apartment. Let’s get you into bed, okay?”

Tony follows her gentle lead towards the bed, kicking off his shoes and jeans in the process of crawling under the blankets. She joins him, pressing a kiss to his temple. He curls up to her, pressing close. “Is he home?”

Pepper freezes for a moment before gently running her fingers through his hair. “No. Not yet, Tony.”

“He needs to come home,” Tony mumbles.

“I know,” Pepper whispers, hugging him tight. She sounds tired herself; tired, and sick, and heartbroken. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

Of all the people in this world, there are only two capable of making him go to sleep. Pepper is among them. Tony sighs, pressing close to her, and falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony stays in the lab more and more often these days, tinkering, fixing things, starting new projects, whatever he can do to keep his mind distracted and his hands busy. It’s been two weeks since Peter disappeared, and there are no new leads to pursue. He’s run out of places to look. The Avengers still search, though. They do it in shifts; Sam and leave early in the morning and comb through the city. Natasha and Clint take the evening and night search, disappearing after lunch and rarely making it back before the early hours of the morning. Tony joins them when he can; when his exhaustion doesn’t drag him down and make him sloppy. More often than not, he lets them take the lead and checks in on May.

Right now, much to his own chagrin, his only hope is that the NYPD detectives find something useful. Tony knows he should wait until the police contact him before moving on with his own investigation. He knows this.

He’s just not going to.

The holo screens in the lab flip on with a flick of his wrist, and he gets to work. It takes him less than five minutes to break through NYPD’s security, and another two to find the directory and files he’s looking for. The detectives have been interviewing Peter’s friends and teachers at school, and Tony needs to see for himself what they’ve said and how they’ve acted. It’s possible someone close to Peter at school knows something. Tony can’t exactly stroll up to a high school and start interrogating teenagers without sparking a media shitstorm, so this is the next best thing.

He goes through the reports and interviews file by file, downloading and watching each one. All of them are short and to the point: no one knows where Peter is, yes he’s been acting odd lately, no, he’s never caused trouble before, he’s just mildly troubled and has terrible luck. The last recording Tony finds is an interview with one of Peter’s teachers. He downloads the video file and then has FRIDAY build a hologram of the interrogation room in the center of his lab. When she finishes, Tony is looking at the near lifelike images of Brannigan, Jones, and a bearded man with thin glasses who nervously shifts in his chair. It takes Tony a moment to recognize the man, and to put a name to the face.

“Would you say Peter’s home life was healthy?” Brannigan asks.

Mr. Harrington looks like the living stereotype of a high strung teacher; thin, with thick glasses, a well trimmed beard, and an aurora of _geek_ that only seems to hover around the kind of teacher that volunteers to run the Academic Decathlon team. He also looks heartbroken. 

“I mean, I don’t think he had trouble at home, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harrington answers slowly. “His aunt loves him and does everything she can for him. We all knew about his uncle, and his parents before that, but he seemed to be handling it well. About as well as you could expect of a teenager, I guess.”

He’s quiet for a moment and suddenly looks older. “Maybe I should have talked to him more? He started dropping out of all of his extracurriculars, all at once, but he had that internship with Tony Stark. I assumed he was okay, but some kids are really good at hiding how much they’re hurting. I had a student five years ago who--” He stops suddenly and sighs, exhausted. “I should have talked to him more.”

“Was Peter often in trouble?”

Harrington shakes his head. “Trouble? No. Sometimes he’ll slack off in class, argue with Flash, maybe sleep through a lecture or show up late. But he’s never caused a problem, or disrupted class, and his test scores are through the roof.”

“Flash is Eugene Thompson?”

“Yeah. He and Peter have a strained relationship. Don’t get the wrong idea,” Harrington adds. “It’s not like they fought each other or anything. I mean, last Monday wasn’t so much a fight as bad timing. Peter was closing his locker door and didn’t notice Flash’s hand was in the way. It turned into a shoving match and pretty much ended before it started.”

“Would Flash ever hurt Peter?”

Harrington laughs. “No, _god_ no. Flash is used to being the smartest guy in the room. That isn’t true at Midtown, and he’s still trying to wrap his ego around it. Name calling, knocking books out of Peter’s hands...Maybe shoving. He wouldn’t hurt Peter. He’s, well, he’s all flash.”

“Are you sure?” Brannigan asks. “Things can escalate pretty quickly between teenagers.”

“Listen, Flash had to dissect an earthworm in biology and passed out. I’m not saying he’s, he’s weak or anything, just that he’s not typically the kind of person who resorts to violence. Midtown is full of super nerds. What fights we have are, um, really kind of sad. We have more trouble with cyber bullying, and even that isn't all that impressive. Usually.”

Brannigan nods, writing something down in her notes before flipping through a file on the table. “Peter’s been in detention quite a bit over the past month. Why’s that?”

“Oh, he sneaks out during lunch and comes back late for his afternoon classes sometimes. Maybe once a week. I don’t think he stays in detention for more than an hour each time, if that,” Harrington says with a shrug. “No one’s really keeping track of his detentions. He’s had a rough few years, and...well. Like I said, his grades are amazing.” He hesitates and then quietly admits. “For the most part. Until recently.”

“I noticed that. How often does a straight A student drop their grades to a high C?”

“Kids can get burnt out with school,” Harrington explains hurriedly. “Think about it. You and I, we get up and go to work and we only have one job to worry about. High school is like having seven or eight jobs every day, with just as many bosses, and hours of ‘overtime’ on top of it for homework and after school activities. Sixteen is prime ‘I’m sick of this’ age, and Peter’s brilliant. Even our toughest classes are easy for him. I’m not surprised he’s hit a slump, you know? His tests never suffer, but his homework has been a little spotty lately. If he keeps up his test scores, the homework won't matter anyway."

“You seem to be in a rush to defend him, Mr. Harrington,” Jones says. He’s leaning back in his chair, watching the teacher closely with his arms crossed.

“Because I know sometimes police like to take the easy way out with missing children who don’t have perfect family backgrounds,” Harrington replies, the first hint of steel entering his voice. “And I don’t want Peter to be a part of that. He deserves better.”

Tony makes a mental note to send Harrington a gift basket.

“I’m not in the habit of taking the easy way out, Mr. Harrington,” Brannigan says. Her phone beeps, and she checks her smartwatch. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.”

“Is that all you needed from me?” Harrington asks. 

“That’s all for now, Mr. Harrington.”

“If you need anything else, call me. Please,” Harrington says, standing slowly. “With everything going on, all of those bodies showing up near where he lives... I, well, I’m worried. We all are.”

Brannigan’s voice is gentle. “We’ll let you know. Thank you for your time, Mr. Harrington.”

Harrington leaves, and the detectives are silent for a moment until Jones mutters, “Doubt that guy knows anything else that’d be useful. He looks like he’s one bad coffee away from a complete mental breakdown or his second divorce.”

“No, probably not,” Brannigan sighs, frustrated, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’re running out of leads, Rich.”

“Don’t tell Stark that,” Jones replies, standing up with a grunt. “He’ll tear you a new one and probably set this whole precinct on fire in the process. That goes double for May Parker.”

“I wouldn’t blame either of them. Peter's their kid, and he’s gone missing,” Brannigan mutters, standing up. “Let’s start from the top. Call in the Thompsons for another interview. We might have missed something. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a few hours in before the captain has us help the task force with the Demon case.”

“He’s putting us on that? What do they need our help with?” 

“We’re on corpse duty today at the morgue. They need help identifying the bodies,” Brannigan replies.

“Eugh. How many have they found?”

“Four, and none of them have heads, which is going to make our afternoon interesting,” Brannigan stretches, and then reaches down to stop the recording. 

The hologram of the interrogation room collapses. Tony idly swivels his stool seat around in a circle, steadily clicking a pen, lost in thought. The police are chasing their own tails (not a big surprise), and his own searches are turning up nothing. A low, slow burning frustration is starting to color all of Tony’s thoughts. Coupled with his frankly horrifying sleep schedule, and it’s becoming more difficult for him to engage in his problem solving skills. Which is an issue, considering this is possibly the biggest fucking problem in his life so far.

He tosses the pen down on his work table and starts to stand up when the door to his lab opens and Natasha and Clint stroll inside. And in Clint’s hands is a very familiar green backpack.

“We found something,” Natasha says by way of greeting. Clint drops Peter’s backpack on the table in front of Tony. It’s covered in dark, black streaks, as if paint had been dripping across the front of it for several hours. “Ross’ people are a bust so far, but the street where Peter disappeared is interesting. This was in that deli that was boarded up."

Tony pulls on a pair of gloves and opens the backpack. Peter’s apartment keys fall out, along with a notebook marked for his chemistry class and a few folded up pieces of paper. He hesitates when he picks up the keys; Lego Avenger figurines dangle from the ring alongside a smooth, black keycard meant for Tony’s labs and the dull, brass key for his apartment. Peter’s phone lays at the bottom of the backpack. Tony pulls it out and presses the power button. It doesn’t turn on at all; no power. That isn’t totally surprising, all things considered.

“The deli?” Tony asks, plugging the phone in to charge. “That place was sealed shut. I would’ve had to take down a wall to get inside of it. How did you get in there?”

“The vents,” Clint says. “We broke in to take a look around."

"Should've guessed you'd use the vents. Did they tar the floor in the shop? What is this stuff?" Tony mutters, poking at the thick, black substance clinging to fabric. It cracks, like dried paint. “What was in the shop?”

“The walk in freezer in the back was packed full of meat that’s gone bad. The backpack was under some roast beef that went grey about a month ago, judging by the smell,” Clint says. “We didn’t find anything else in there except for some very angry rats and a lot of worryingly large roaches.”

“We did some homework on the way back,” Natasha adds, crossing her arms as she leans against Tony’s work table. “The deli was bought out by the building next door. I did some digging on that place since it was so weirdly quiet over there and apparently it’s an old Trask Laboratories lab. They were bought out by Life Foundation awhile ago. In fact, the Life Foundation basically owns every building on that street,” Clint adds.

“I’ve heard of Trask labs, but I’ve never heard of Life Foundation,” Tony says, half to himself. Something about Trask Laboratories is tugging at the back of his mind. He can’t recall what it is, however. “FRIDAY, bring me everything you have on the Life Foundation.”

“Yes, boss.” 

The holo screens around the room click to life around the Avengers, and Tony walks in a circle, quickly taking in as much information as he can. “There’s not a lot here. Just stock prices. Even their GlassDoor page is empty.”

“I’ve heard of their CEO. His name’s Carlton Drake, and he has a paranoid streak to him. That isn’t too surprising since he’s been the target of a few ethics lawsuits and investigative journalists,” Natasha says. “For a company as old and as large as his, there should be a bigger presence, though. This isn’t some small start up. It’s a very well funded company.”

“They’ve been picking up biotech labs and researchers who specialize in parasitic organisms for the past three years,” Tony says, reading through a few memos he definitely shouldn’t have had access to. “But they started out with a focus on space travel. NASA contracted out a few of their missions to them. They were helping them look for extraterrestrial life. They lost the contract after the Battle of New York.” 

“That explains the sudden change in focus,” Clint says dryly, idly flipping through the screens hovering in front of him. “The mission was successful, but the government wasn’t interested in looking at parasitic microbes found on some comet after aliens invaded. Sucks to be them.”

Tony frowns, scrolling through the panels of information hovering in front of him. All of it looks to be legal enough; no modern company is ever _completely_ legitimate, but the Life Foundation seems to have kept its nose clean or they’ve been clever enough to hide the really shady stuff in other areas. Tony brings up a map of the street near the deli and taps the image of the office building beside it. The screen zooms in on an unassuming building just like any other office building in the city.

Tony strokes his chin. “They must have some kind of security around their buildings. FRIDAY, contact them. Tell them I’d like a copy of the security footage around this building. As much as they have.”

“On it, boss,” FRIDAY responds.

Tony turns back to the backpack, considering it. He hesitates, then sighs and places the backpack on the workbench he uses to scan and repair items. Usually he uses it for repairing Peter’s suit or building his own, but the tools there should be sensitive enough for this. “FRIDAY, scan this, please. Is there any evidence of blood on Peter’s backpack?”

A few moments pass as FRIDAY works. “No. There is evidence of unknown biological material, however.”

“Probably a nice mix of squished roach, rat guts, and god knows what else,” Clint says. “That shop was disgusting. They didn’t clean up the meat before they shut down, and a lot of it was left to rot.”

“Explains the smell,” Tony mutters as he idly pokes at a piece of the black substance on the backpack. It flakes off, releasing a truly horrendous smell. Tony makes a face, pulling his hand back and taking off his gloves. “Did you guys find anything else?”

“Not yet,” Natasha says, still looking through the files on the Life Foundation. Something has caught her eye, but Tony can tell she’s not quite ready to give voice to her thoughts. She minimizes the screens and stands up from the lab, her gaze distant and thoughtful as she walks back towards the door. “I’ll let you know.”

Tony nods, turning back to the screens to start a diagnostic on Peter’s phone. He doubts he’ll find anything new or interesting from what he already has, but it’s worth a look regardless. He works in silence for a few moments and then sighs.

“Keep looking at me like that, Barton, and I’m going to start getting ideas,” he says.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m spoken for,” Clint shoots back. He’s quiet for a second before shifting his tone to a gentler and softer one. “How are you holding up?”

Tony’s first instinct is to brush him off, to snap out a snarky little joke or just outright ignore him completely. They’ve never been close friends, and the past few years have proven that what friendship they did have was almost irreparably destroyed after their little fistfight at the airport. But he doesn’t. Of them all, Clint is the one most likely to understand what Tony’s going through, and there’s something comforting about that. This isn’t a former friend trying to help; this is one father reaching out to another.

“Terrible,” Tony admits. Peter’s phone isn’t accepting a charge. Whatever ‘biological material’ FRIDAY found on the backpack has seeped into the charging port and earphone jack. Lovely. He’s probably going to have to incinerate the damn thing. He sends a few commands through the nearest screen and FRIDAY takes the phone from the bench to clean it. 

“I can’t sleep longer than three hours, I’m obsessively checking my phone and hacking into the NYPD mainframe, and, bonus, I’m running out of ideas on where to look. If Cap, Sam, and Rhodey weren’t on my ass all the time, I probably wouldn’t be eating either. To top it all off, the police are completely fucking useless, and my kid is still _gone._ ”

Clint is quiet for a few moments. “How long will it take you to download everything from Peter’s phone?”

“Normally a few minutes, but since that backpack and his phone are full of ‘unknown biological material,’ probably a lot longer. I’ve got to clean it first,” Tony says, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not an issue. It’ll just take FRIDAY awhile to do it.

“Good. Come with me.”

Tony turns to look at him, frowning.

“You haven’t left this building since the day we came here,” Clint explains, grabbing Tony’s long forgotten coat from the couch and tossing it his way. “Steve and Rhodey are holding down the fort, Happy’s with May, the police are doing their jobs. And you look like shit. A little bit of sun and fresh air might help shake some things loose in that oversized brain of yours.”

Again, his first instinct is to say no, but... “We’re getting coffee first.”

“Deal, but we’re getting it from Glazed and Confused,” Clint says, hopping from his perch. “I’ve missed that place. Best doughnuts in the city.”

“I can’t believe you like that place. You and Pete both need better pastry standards,” Tony mutters, watching as FRIDAY starts the cleaning process on Peter’s phone. Something is bothering him about the backpack. He can’t quite place what it is. His lack of sleep is slowing him down, and thinking too hard blanks out his mind altogether.

Clint’s right; a change of scenery might help. He shrugs on his coat and follows Clint out of the lab, turning it over in the back of his mind. Sometimes, he just needs to let a problem percolate a bit before he can pinpoint what’s bothering him.

*** * ***

Clint’s mission to distract Tony is overall successful, but when FRIDAY alerts him that the phone is clean and charged, he heads right back into the lab. Where he finds Natasha, sitting at one of his work tables, slowly scrolling through the information FRIDAY downloaded from Peter’s phone, reading through his messages and social media accounts. Sitting in the middle of the work table is a simple brown box.

“You know he’s going to lose his mind when he realizes you went through that stuff, right,” Tony says dryly, sitting down across from her. “He’s going to sulk for _weeks_ about the Black Widow invading his privacy and reading his love notes to his girlfriend.” 

He’s briefly distracted by the box, tapping it a few times. “This box isn’t going to explode, is it? There isn’t a baby Barton assassin hiding inside it with a gun, is there?"

“I’ll make it up to him. And don’t be ridiculous. I’ve taught all of them how to use knives and garrotes,” Natasha replies, distracted. Her face softens, and she sends a picture to the nearest holoscreen. It’s of Peter, when he was eight years old and in the full swing of his Iron Man days. He’s beaming at the camera, proudly holding an Iron Man helmet in his hands. “This is sweet.”

Tony can’t help but smile seeing it. “May sent that to me a few months back. She said I’d earned ‘embarrassing baby pictures’ privileges. I think Pepper’s got that one saved, too. Pete hates it, but he can deal.”

Natasha watches him for a few moments. “He’s good for you.”

“He’s good for everyone,” Tony replies, looking up from the box to look at the picture. He reaches out and swipes the picture; FRIDAY automatically supplies pictures from his personal server, the Vault where he keeps his most important things; a picture of Peter and Rhodey playing poker (with Peter losing terribly) pops up, followed by a picture of Pepper and Peter baking a cake and making a mess of the kitchen in the process, Happy and Peter watching Netflix, and finally a picture of Peter asleep on the couch in the common room, tucked under Steve’s leather jacket, while Tony sits in the background, giving the camera a curious and vaguely annoyed look as he works on a tablet. 

Seeing them calms Tony and makes him miss the kid all the more; he’s starting to realize how big of an impact Peter’s presence has had on his life. “He reminds me of Steve sometimes, the stubborn little shit. Too strong and brave to know when to quit and too clever to know when he should ask for help.”

Natasha casts a glance over at the Spiderman suit on Peter’s workbench in the corner, and then looks at Tony, quirking a brow. “Is that why you follow him around when he’s out on patrol?”

“I don’t _follow_ him around. He asks me to come with him every now and then,” Tony insists. He pauses and squints at her. “How long have you known?”

“Since Germany. Everyone else figured it out a few days ago,” she replies. “It wasn’t hard to put together. Spiderman is always hanging around Iron Man, and ever since Peter disappeared, there hasn’t been any hint of Spiderman." At Tony's frown, she hastens to add, "It doesn’t change anything, Tony. We’re still going to help.”

Tony didn’t think that it would, but he’d be lying if a part of him wasn’t expecting to catch hell for dragging Peter into that fight. But maybe he wouldn’t. Or maybe he’ll just get an exceptionally petty Christmas card from Barton or something. 

“Find anything interesting?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Yes and no,” Natasha says, setting the phone down. She brings up a holoscreen and pulls up information on Trask Laboratories. “I’ve done some digging on Ross and his people. The good news is, everyone you weren’t able to take down with him have been quietly resigning and placed under house arrest pending charges and lawsuits. Ross is being kept in a supermax prison in Colorado and hasn’t been allowed to speak with anyone aside from his lawyer for the past month.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very. Ross isn’t your guy.”

Tony frowns, tapping the table while he thinks. “But you said this was a professional job.”

“I did. Because it looks like one, and I’m not entirely sure that it _isn’t_ , but I could be wrong.”

In some ways, this is both a source of relief and frustration. Ross was the easy, obvious answer for Peter’s disappearance. Tony’s relieved that he doesn’t have to stage a prison break in some off the books Raft where Peter’s being kept in a cell, but that just means he’s back at square one. 

“Okay. So I don’t have to kill Ross. Where does that leave us?”

Natasha places her chin in her hand and watches him, idly spinning the holoscreen in front of her around with one finger. “Did you know Richard Parker used to do contract work for Trask Laboratories?”

That’s why the name sounded familiar. He isn’t sure what Richard Parker has to do with this, but Natasha doesn’t just casually mention something like that without reason. Tony shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“It didn’t end well.” She taps the nearest holoscreen and brings up what looks to be a mountain of legal documents--court orders, dispositions, terse letters between lawyers, the works. “They lured him in by promising to let him use their lab space for a minimum price if he helped with their research part time. He held up his end of the deal, but they saw his latest project and wanted it for themselves. They sued him, seized his lab, and locked him out when he refused to sell it to them.”

“What was he working on?”

“I’m still not sure. Trask kept it off of their servers and only used good old fashioned paper and fax to transfer information about it. Apparently Richard encrypted or destroyed all of his files before his death,” she says. “He refused to release it and went on record insisting it was too dangerous if put in the wrong hands or ‘used too soon.’”

“A weapon?” Tony asks. He can’t imagine Richard Parker creating a bioweapon, but the Parkers have never been flush with cash and brilliant minds can turn anything into a profitable weapon with frightening ease. Especially if said brilliant mind has a kid suffering from severe asthma at home with mounting medical debt to go alongside living expenses and college debt.

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know yet. Richard was a very thorough man, or at least knew where to hide things where his bosses couldn’t find them. Unfortunately, he and his wife died before the lawsuit could be settled. He was on the winning side, for what it's worth. And then Trask Laboratories fell into hot water with the IRS not long after the recession and they were bought out by the Life Foundation, who have started cannibalizing Trask’s old projects for their own research.”

Tony lets his eyes roam across the documents, absorbing what he can at first glance. He scrolls through contracts and threats and letters, and boggles at how much Richard fielded himself without a lawyer. The man must have spent most of his last days just dealing with legal paperwork. 

“Do you think Trask killed Richard for his research?”

“I’m not sure. But if they did, and if they’re involved in Peter’s disappearance, the evidence might start here,” Natasha says, opening the box. She pulls out a laptop and carefully sets it down in front of Tony. It’s old; practically ancient compared to its modern counterparts. A simple label along the lid has the words _Richard Parker, Genetics Dept._ printed across it.

“Where the hell did you find this?” Tony asks, impressed.

“That building next to the deli shop had a sub basement Clint and I couldn’t get into without a few special tools. I went back to take a look after Clint dragged you off for coffee. There isn’t much in that place.” She taps the laptop. “I found this hidden in the floor of an old lab, with a few other boxes I wasn’t able to carry. The place was barely bigger than a closet. Richard Parker didn’t warrant a nice lab, apparently.”

Tony takes the laptop, looking it over. He’s gentle with it; this is something Peter will want to have when he gets back, and Tony doesn’t want to inadvertently break any part of it. Overall, the laptop looks like it’s in good shape, but who knows how much data survived on the harddrive. Data degradation dictates that it might be nothing more than a hunk of junk. He wheels his stool over to FRIDAY’s local processing center and plugs it in. “FRIDAY, see what you can do with this.”

The AI is silent for a few seconds, analyzing the laptop. “I’m not sure there’s much I can do. The battery is not taking a charge and I’m sensing immense amounts of dust.”

“Order a new battery. Or fabricate one, whichever is easier. Start clearing the dust, too.”

“On it. This will take some time. Not due to a processing load, just for the sheer care involved.”

“Noted. In the meantime, look up Trask Laboratories and Life Foundation’s executives,” Tony says, watching as FRIDAY begins to take apart Richard’s laptop. “I want to know what they’ve been up to for the past year.”

“I’ll get the files together for you.”

“I’ll go back for the rest of the boxes later,” Natasha says, standing up. “For now, I’m going to take a look at the Life Foundation myself. Three of their employees went missing near that building the same day Peter did.”

“I never heard anything about that,” Tony says.

“People go missing all the time, Tony. They very rarely make it on the news. But I’ve found a few things that seem odd, and I’ve got an strange feeling about the Life Foundation, so tonight I’ve got a date with Carlton Drake.”

Tony makes a face. “You have fun with that. And check in. You know how Cap and Clint get if you aren’t around to shame them into making good choices.”

That earns him a small, familiar smirk as she stands up. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” she says, leaving the lab and Tony.

Tony turns back to the box. There are DVDs along the bottom of it--old ones, marked with dates in fading black sharpie. Some list dates, others are just marked with _‘notes_ ’ or ‘ _results_ ’ in handwriting eerily similar to Peter’s. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of order to them; they’re all thrown together. Which is also frustratingly similar to Peter's habits. 

He pulls out the DVDs and starts to feed them into Friday’s processing unit. Dust, dirt, and water have damaged most of them beyond repair, but a few of the discs among the center of the pile haven’t lost all of their data. There’s enough left for Friday to retrieve, at least, but it’ll take awhile before anything useful comes of it.

Which means his lab is essentially off limits until the tasks are done. He debates heading out into the common room, but dismisses the idea. The rest of the Avengers are there, and he’s not feeling particularly chatty today. 

He idly wonders how the detectives are faring; truth be told, he doesn’t have much hope for them. Not when he has Natasha and Clint out on the hunt.

“Boss, Detective Brannigan is requesting your presence at her precinct. She wants to check in and she also wants to know if you still have location data from Peter’s phone,” FRIDAY says.

“Speak of the devil,” Tony mutters. He has his own personal communications network, and while Peter is technically still on May’s plan, his phone connects to Tony’s network more often than a cell carrier’s. Peter’s records probably showed phone calls, but not what towers he used, and that’s by design; no one needs to question why his phone is swinging across New York at forty miles an hour. Detective Brannigan refused taking the information earlier, citing policy, so her change of heart has him curious. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

“Of course, boss.”

*** * ***

It doesn't take long for Tony to reach the police station Brannigan is stationed at. He’s exhausted, though, and has FRIDAY take over the car and drive him there. Fall has settled over the city completely now, and the sky above is thick with clouds. Occasionally, he sees a single flurry float down. Peter had his (well, Steve’s, technically) jacket when he disappeared, and that should keep him warm enough until the first snowstorm of the season hits. Which looks to be sooner rather than later, judging by the frigid wind. Another thing to worry about, layered on top of the others.

The car eases to a stop outside the squat, thin windowed police station. Tony slips his sunglasses on, tightens his coat against the weather, and steps out of the car and into the building, passing exhausted cops, worried civilians, and bored station workers on the way to the front desk. A young man standing at the desk, an obvious rookie, looks up when Tony approaches and stares at him, obviously starstruck.

“Hi, I’m here to see Detective Brannigan,” Tony says. 

He’s not in the mood for the usual schmoozing, but the guy doesn’t seem to take it personally. He clears his throat. "Detective Brannigan is downstairs in one of the interview rooms, Mr. Stark. She's finishing up an interview and she wants you to join her down there.”

‘Interview room’ is just a fancier way of saying 'interrogation closet' in Tony's experience. He wonders just how territorial Brannigan is over this case; his offer to bring her pinpoint accurate data from Peter's disappearance could be taken poorly by a hotheaded cop looking to maintain her solve rate. 

"Where's that?" Tony asks.

"Follow me, sir."

The rookie stands up and guides Tony over to the elevator bank, taking him down into the interrogation rooms in the basement. Tony spends the whole ride wondering what Brannigan's play is here, ignoring the shy, starstruck looks the rookie keeps throwing his way.

There's a pleasant _ding_ as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open up to a wide, cement hallway lined with heavy steel doors. The door halfway down the hallway is open, and raised voices come from it.

"Mr. Thompson---" Brannigan says.

"You bring her down here!" A man yells, his voice booming out of a nearby room and echoing down the hall. "Bring that woman down here so she can explain why her worthless runaway kid broke my son's _hand!"_

And Tony has his answer. He looks to the rookie and flashes him a polite smile. “I think I can take it from here, Officer Myers.”

The cop nods, hitting the button on the elevator to close the doors and head back upstairs. Tony follows the sound of raised voices, footsteps echoing in the cement hallway. He can pick out Brannigan’s voice easily enough, but the other isn’t familiar to him. It belongs to a man, and the tone of it reeks of arrogant entitlement and rage.

It seems his afternoon just got that much more interesting. Tony pushes the door open completely and steps inside the room. It’s a simple set up--a heavy table bolted to the floor, four chairs around it, a camera mounted in the corner, and a fluorescent light hanging from the center of the ceiling. Detective Brannigan is sitting on one side of the table, pen and notebook in hand, and the other is occupied by a man Tony’s age, wearing a suit just as tailored and expensive as one of Tony’s press conference outfits. He’s standing, pointing a finger accusingly at Brannigan when Tony walks in. The last is a teenager with one of his arms in a sling and a red cast on his wrist and forearm, sitting beside the man in the suit and with an utterly miserable expression on his face.

All three occupants in the room look up as he steps inside and pulls off his sunglasses. The man drops his arm and frowns at Tony in confusion. The teenager gapes in disbelief. Brannigan keeps her poker face on, and doesn’t react to Tony at all.

“Everything okay here?” Tony asks, tucking his sunglasses back into his shirt pocket.

"Everything’s fine. We’re just having a discussion about Peter’s disappearance. Mr. Stark, this is Mr. Thompson and his son, Eugene," Brannigan says, somehow managing to keep an even tone to her voice.

Flash ducks down, avoiding Tony’s eyes. He looks pale and shocked.

Thompson stares at Tony, momentarily startled, then sets his jaw and turns back to Brannigan, ignoring Tony completely. “Stop trying to distract me, detective. You're hiding the Parker woman's information from me."

"Mrs. Parker is currently helping us with the investigation into Peter's disappearance," Brannigan corrects. "An investigation that has not yet cleared your son, by the way."

Flash's head snaps up at this. The sickened, terrified look on his face speaking volumes.

"What? I-I--" he babbles.

"Eugene's an idiot," Thompson snaps, waving a dismissive hand towards his son. "He's not dangerous, least of all to some charity case barely worth looking at twice."

Tony slowly quirks an eyebrow, taking in Thompson’s words. 

Brannigan presses on. "At this point in time, it would be best if both families stayed away from each other. That includes phone calls, emails, and face to face chats. Allow me to emphasize that last point, Mr. Thompson, for your own safety."

Thompson goes red in the face. “Are you _threatening_ me, detective?”

"Excuse me, what's going on here?" Tony cuts in, moving to stand near Brannigan. Thompson looks ready to start throwing punches, and while he thinks Brannigan can handle herself, he’d rather not witness some jumped up prick in a suit attack someone else in front of his kid.

“I want May Parker’s information so I can sue her for medical costs,” Thompson snaps. “Her information is _impossible_ to find! No one knows where she lives. I can’t even find her goddamn employer! Of course, she probably doesn’t have one--wouldn’t surprise me--”

Tony long ago hid away May and Peter Parker’s information from most of the usual search engines and effectively made them ghosts as far as the regular civilian is concerned. It’s a security precaution, a way to protect the Parkers from Ross and anyone else who might be looking at them too hard. The only people who can find May’s information are humorless government sorts who will abide by the ‘do not share’ policy attached to the information with their regular bored efficiency.

"I see,” Tony says, cutting Thompson off. “Detective, could you give us the room for a minute? I’d like to talk with Mr. Thompson."

"As long as I don't have to book anyone for battery and assault by the end of this conversation, sure," Brannigan says, standing up. She looks between Tony and Mr. Thompson. "Ten minutes, gentlemen. If I see any fists fly, I _will_ come in and taze you both, regardless of who starts it." 

She leaves them and shuts the door behind herself. There are cameras tucked away in the corners, so there's no illusion of privacy here, but it will at least keep people wandering by from peeking into the room. Good.

"What's your game here, Stark--" Thompson starts.

"Sit down," Tony orders. He pins Thompson with a polite, cold smile that doesn’t quite reflect in his eyes as he sits down. “Let’s talk. Like gentlemen. You’re familiar with the concept, I’m sure.”

Thompson sits down stiffly. "Do you know how much emergency surgery costs? How much an _x-ray_ costs? I'm suing her for medical costs plus emotional damages. God knows Flash will be jumpy from this."

That’s a type of lawsuit May can't afford. And she definitely can’t afford the second lawsuit that will come after she slaps Thompson into next week. There are very few ways to make May infuriated beyond all reason, but Tony has the feeling that Thompson’s frequent and loud casual insults towards Peter would do it. Hell, he’s weighing the pros and cons of such a lawsuit as they speak.

"You look like you do well for yourself,” Tony points out.

"I do _extremely_ well for myself," Thompson says. "I run one of the best law firms in the city, and I represent the best companies in Manhattan."

"Except mine, of course,” Tony points out casually. Thompson stiffens, glowering at Tony. “And why does a bigshot corporate lawyer like you need to sue a single mother for medical costs?"

There’s a brief pause. Thompson sniffs. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“I’m surprised you know the meaning of the word.”

Thompson glares at him. "I'm--"

"A lawyer. One of those corporate snakes that get off on twisting the law to benefit your client." Tony waves his hand dismissively. "I've got at least fifty of your type on my payroll; you’re cheaper than a lawsuit and just barely more tolerable than the people who work for the tabloids."

Thompson's face flushes with fury. Tony takes the opportunity to make his point. He suddenly stands up and braces his fists against the table, leaning over it to crowd Thompson. It’s a cheap intimidation trick, but it works. The man shifts awkwardly in his chair as Tony looms over him and lowers his voice. 

“Back off, Thompson. You know which of us has the bigger stick in this room. And you know I won’t back out of a fight. Leave the Parkers alone. You don’t want to push me on this. I’ll _ruin_ you.”

Thompson’s face flushes, his jaw going tense. “She owes me--”

“Not a _goddamn cent,_ ” Tony snaps, his voice overpowering Thompson’s. Flash flinches at the sudden sound. Tony presses on, grabbing Brannigan's forgotten notepad on the table and scribbling out a phone number leading to FRIDAY before tearing out the sheet and shoving it back to Thompson’s side of the table. “But if you want money? Fine. Call my assistant. Give them a number. You’ll get it within an hour. And then you will leave the Parkers alone or I’ll tie you up with so much litigation your _grandchildren_ will owe me their lives. Got it?”

Thompson stares at the notebook for a moment, then looks up at Tony. “If this is a trick--”

“You aren’t worth the effort to trick, pal,” Tony says. He pulls out his phone and taps out a quick message to FRIDAY. 

_FRI, an asshole is going to call you soon. Pay him what he wants, but make him work for it._

Two seconds later, a message appears on his phone. _I see we’re making friends at the police station today, boss. Understood._

Tony pockets his phone again and smirks at Thompson, who scowls at him before snatching up the paper. Thompson storms out of the room, yanking his phone out of his suit pocket and angrily dialing the number Tony wrote down. He doesn’t spare Flash a second look, and simply leaves him behind with the door open. He begins to pace up and down the hall, growling into the phone.

Flash sighs in relief when his father leaves, drawing Tony’s attention.

Tony looks at the kid, _really_ looks at him.

And clenches his jaw.

Flash isn’t afraid of Tony. He’s not overwhelmed or blinded by hero worship. No, Flash only has eyes for his father. And in those eyes is nothing but apprehension and wary suspicion. He realizes Tony’s looking at him and stands up to leave, edging towards the door.

Tony puts a hand up to stop Flash and frowns when the boy cringes. He pulls his hand back and gives the boy some space. “You look pretty rattled. You all right, kid?”

Flash stares at him in open mouthed shock. “I, yeah, I’m-I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

Tony glances over at the kid’s father, yelling into his cell phone with all the haughty impatience of a spoiled king. He snorts. “You sure about that?”

Flash looks over at his father and then shrugs, his voice going carefully bland. “I’ve seen worse tantrums.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. Are you safe, kid?”

“Yeah, he’s just having one of his tantrums. You get used to it.” Flash looks up at him. “I didn’t want to do this, you know. My dad has good health insurance. They paid for everything. The surgery, the doctor, the cast. He’s just mad I got hurt and he wants to make it even.”

“Upset or mad?” Tony can sympathize with the guy on some level. Knee-jerk overprotective responses have been a new and somewhat disturbing development since Tony recruited Peter. Turns out empathy is a learned skill and there’s no quicker way to learn than taking in a kid absolutely determined to fling himself off of the highest buildings in the city while fighting crime. If the situation were reversed, he’d probably have half his foot buried up Thompson’s ass sideways, PR be damned.

Flash frowns, going thoughtful. “Neither, actually. I think he’s just really insulted by it. You know. Something of his got hurt.” At Tony’s expression, he shrugs. “It looks bad. He doesn’t like it when he can’t look like he’s perfect. He doesn’t like losers.”

Tony takes that in, his mind going over the implications behind Flash's words. “He’s not going to take this out on you, is he?”

Flash scoffs. “No, he’ll pretend it never happened. You embarrassed him, and that’ll make him tolerable for a few days. Maybe even a week, if I’m lucky.”

Tony relaxes a tiny bit at that. “If you need a repeat performance, let me know.” He pauses for a moment, writes down FRIDAY’s number again on a new sheet of paper and hands it to Flash. In a lower voice, he says, “And if things change, if you need to get out of there, do it. Got it? Call this number. Get to the Tower and ask to speak with FRIDAY. Keep an exit plan on hand.”

Flash looks stunned, but nods, fumbling with the piece of paper and his words. “I’m almost out of here. I’ve got scholarships lined up for Stanford because of the academic decathlon team. If that doesn’t cover everything, I’ll take a commission with the Air Force. Four years as an officer is worth getting away from him forever.”

Tony goes quiet, thinking back on all of the brief moments where Peter’s mentioned Flash to him, piecing together the puzzle that is Flash Thompson. “Is that why you’ve been trying to get Peter’s spot on the team?”

Flash ducks his head, nodding. “It looks better if you’re actually in the competitions and not just a back up. Even if you get questions wrong or the team loses, you still get noticed for being on the team when you go to a place like Midtown. I’d get a way better scholarship. Enough to cover most of my classes for freshman year, or a full ride if I'm lucky. It’d really help.”

“So you tried to bully Peter out of his spot.”

Flash shrinks down, and doesn’t say anything to that. Not that there’s much he _can_ say in his own defense. The kid’s desperate, not evil. He knows what he’s doing isn’t right, but he’s weighing it against living in the shadow of his father.

Tony didn’t expect to find himself sympathizing with Peter’s bully, but fuck, it’s pretty goddamn hard not to. “For what it’s worth, you’ve got a solid plan. If you need help, or a scholarship--”

Flash tenses. “No. I can’t--I _need_ to do this by myself. I have to do something on my own for once, without owing anybody more than I need. Get my own scholarships for a university _I_ choose. Build my own life.”

Tony quirks a brow and Flash ducks his head again, seemingly embarrassed. He considers the boy for a moment. 

“Okay. You got this. I respect that. Just do me a favor and try not to start anymore fights with Peter when he gets back. You don’t have to tear him down to make your life easier, all right?”

“I won’t, I promise. Not after Monday,” Flash says, cradling his broken wrist against his chest. “That was intense, man.”

“Yeah, about that. What happened? Start from the top.”

Flash shifts uncomfortably. “It was after the last bell rang, and Peter was just...I dunno. He wasn’t with it. Normally he knows when I’m about to mess with him and he avoids me or dodges, but he didn’t on Monday. It was...honestly, it was weird."

“Start from the beginning.”

“Right. Uh, well. Peter’s been acting weird lately at school. It almost seemed like he was on drugs or drunk or something. Just really spacey and frustrated? I think I overheard him tell Ned to shut up and leave him alone,” Flash starts. He hesitates, looking a tad shamefaced. “It was, uh, it was really easy to bug him. You know. Knocking books out of his hands and shoving him when the teachers weren’t looking. Calling him names. The, um. The usual.”

"On what planet is any of this okay to you?" Tony asks, annoyance threading his tone.

"It's nothing worse than what I hear when Dad's around," Flash says, shrugging, and clearly embarrassed.

There's so much unsaid in that one sentence that Tony is briefly overwhelmed with another surge of fury. It takes every ounce of his self control to keep from charging down the hall and throttling the elder Thompson.

Whatever expression he has on his face urges Flash into continuing. "A-Anyway, I reached in to snatch his backpack and he grabbed my hand _hard._ Like....I don't know, once a snake handler's boa constrictor started strangling Mr. Harrington and we had to help get it off of him. The snake felt like coiled steel. That kind of grip. I didn't know he was that strong. He always flakes out in gym class."

Well, shit, no wonder Flash needed surgery. Peter’s grip is nothing to scoff at. Flash is lucky Peter didn’t squeeze hard enough to pop his whole hand off. As it is, he’s lucky he got away with a few broken bones in his wrist.

"It was only for a second, really. He yanked his hand back and slammed his locker door shut before backing off. The door is what broke my wrist, I think. There’s no way he could’ve squeezed hard enough to do it with just his hand,” Flash continues, half to himself. “And I don't think he meant to shut it on me. He was trying to get away from me and just...moved too fast? It was weird. Really jerky and fast." 

“He’s a pretty fast mover from what I’ve seen,” Tony says. “What else happened?”

Flash shrugs. "There’s not much more to tell after that. I pushed him away and yelled at him, he yelled at me and told me to get the hell away from him. Coach Wilson came out and sent us to the principal's office. Um, Principal Morita just put us on ISS for a couple of days. Dad wanted to press charges, but Principal Morita talked him out of it. I think he intimidated dad."

“Remind me to send Principal Morita a thank you note.”

“Um, yeah,” Flash mutters, rubbing the back of his head.

“Did you notice anything off about Peter?” Tony asks.

“He was panicking, I think. Or really close to it. He looked like he was going to start throwing up when he saw the bruise on my wrist. It kind of freaked _me_ out, too. I just wanted to get the hell away from him. was so freaked out that I didn’t realize my hand was broken until I got home. I went to the hospital after that.” The look he gives Tony is pleading. “I didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance, Mr. Stark.”

Tony is silent, taking in Flash's story. What the hell had Peter so jumpy? Something had him shaken enough to forget his own strength, and that adds a new layer of anxiety for Tony. Peter is still young enough to think he’s invincible, and stubborn enough to be fearless to the point of insanity. If something has _him_ scared, then there must be something else going on here. "I believe you."

Flash seems relieved by that. He's quiet for a second and fidgets with his cast. His cast has a small drawing of Spiderman swinging between buildings, Tony notices. “When you find Peter, could you tell him that I’m not, like, upset with him? About my wrist?”

Tony considers it and shakes his head. “No.”

Flash’s shoulders slump. “Yeah. I get it--”

“Because he won’t believe me,” Tony clarifies. “Tell him yourself. Trust me, he’ll want to hear that coming from you. And maybe just try talking with the guy? Believe it or not, he doesn’t hate you.”

“I don’t think he’d want to after all of this. My dad literally just tried to sue his aunt for bills that were already paid.”

“Yeah, but you aren’t your dad, kid.”

The expression that passes over Flash’s face--a mix of shock, relief, and happiness--is almost too much for Tony to handle. He sees entirely too much of himself in Flash Thompson. It’s starting to edge into uncanny territory, and he needs some distance from the kid. 

“Think about it, all right?” he says, pulling out his sunglasses and putting them on. “I’ve got to get going.”

“Yeah--sure, bye, Mr. Stark.”

Tony heads for the door, pauses, and speaks without looking back at him. “If you need help, call me. Got it? Use FRIDAY’s number. She’ll get a message to me, day or night.”

"Y-Yeah. Thanks." 

Tony leaves the room. Flash's father is pacing the elevator bank down the hall, still muttering darkly into his phone. Tony has half a mind to lay the man out for being such a miserable fuck, but opts for finding Brannigan instead. He did come here for a reason, after all, and all the money in the world won’t keep him out of a processing cell if he starts throwing punches in a police station. They’re kind of obligated to arrest you at that point.

He finds her further down the hall, leaning against a doorway leading into a room full of camera feeds.

"You handled that really well," Brannigan says. "Color me impressed. I wouldn't have gotten a quarter of that from Flash, even if I somehow managed to get his dad to let him answer."

"I'm not just a pretty face, you know," Tony replies, adjusting his jacket. "You really think that kid or his dad are involved?"

Brannigan snorts. "God, no. If anything, Flash is more likely to be an actual runaway. Peter's disappearance looks less and less like one by the minute.” She sighs. “No, that was just a way to keep Thompson from catching a beating from May Parker, much as he deserves it. He’d use any confrontation with her as a justification for a lawsuit and she doesn’t need that right now on top of everything else."

"Probably a good idea," Tony agrees, pulling a thumb drive from his pocket. "This has Peter's last location on it. May mentioned the phone records only gave you vague information?"

Brannigan takes the thumb drive with a sigh. "There was a brown out in that part of Queens. Everything we have is only accurate to within fifteen thousand meters. Ask me how useful that is for finding a missing child in New York City."

Tony hums in agreement, marveling at just how _cheap_ other corporations are with their main service. That had been one of the few things he and father agreed on--if it had the Stark name on it, it _will_ be top of the line in quality.

"What more can I do?" Tony asks.

"Wait," Brannigan replies, pocketing the thumb drive. “Which I realize is the last thing you want to hear, but at this point, the best thing you can do is let us do our jobs and try not to interfere.”

_Fat chance,_ Tony thinks.

She stops, takes in his expression, and adds, “Or at least keep us updated on what you find while we work.”

“You’re not going to tell me to stop?” Tony asks, thinking of Peter’s cell phone and backpack at his lab. Richard Parker’s laptop also weighs on his mind, and he considers sharing that information with Brannigan. He holds off for now; this is starting to feel like something beyond NYPD’s skillset.

“No more than I would May Parker,” Brannigan replies gently. “Family is always going to look for family, Mr. Stark. I’m not in any position to tell you to stop. As long as he gets home safely, I’m happy either way.”

“You’re remarkably decent for a cop,” he says, half without meaning to. A second later, he adds, “No offense.”

The wry look she shoots him only proves his words. “The bad apples dropped out when they realized aliens could show up any day now and vaporize them. It’s led to a staffing crisis. Bad for recruitment, good for the integrity of the force. More or less.” She shrugs. “I’ve been around the block, too. They pulled me out of retirement when a giant alien whale-worm crushed most of this precinct’s detective squad.”

“Lucky you.”

“No kidding,” Brannigan says, checking her watch. “Listen, I’ve got a date with the morgue--”

“Wouldn’t dream of keeping you from it, detective. Good luck with that.”

Brannigan nods, and Tony turns around and heads back to the elevators. Flash and his father are long gone, and Tony manages to leave the police station without drawing too much attention from people passing by. The wind that greets him outside of the building is sharp and cold.

He drops into his car with a sigh, relaxing against the heated seats as FRIDAY boots up.

“Where to, boss?”

“Home,” Tony says. “I want to get to work on that laptop tonight.”

FRIDAY starts the engine and the car pulls away from the curb, plotting course back to the Tower through the heavy afternoon traffic. Along the way, he spots a flurry of activity near a subway entrance; the police have it cordoned off, and Detective Jones is standing near a body draped in cloth, speaking with a frightened, shellshocked woman.

The cloth ends at the shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! I really appreciate them!


	3. Chapter 3

The laptop ends up being a bust that night; FRIDAY needs time to build a custom battery for it. The old one is dead weight and none of Tony’s usual tricks get it to work, so he finally admits defeat around three in the morning and goes to lay down for a few hours. Pepper’s side of the bed is empty; she’s back in Malibu for a meeting she simply couldn’t put off any further. Tony’s too exhausted to feel much of anything, but a steady hum runs through his mind and he knows sleep won’t come easily for him. The chill, autumn rain pelting his window would normally help him relax, but it just adds to the frustration tonight. A constant drumming that amplifies his frustration rather than calm it.

He stares out of the bedroom window, looking out over the rainy city in a half doze that doesn't quite reach the depth of sleep. He lets his mind wander, drifting into the edges of consciousness, and starts to close his eyes--

There’s something watching him through the window.

It’s dark. Little more than a shadow with white, pupilless eyes. It grins at him, showing rows of needle teeth and a wormlike tongue slithering against the glass.

Tony shoots up in bed, releasing the nanobots in his watch to create a gauntlet. He aims it at the window, eyes wide, clutching the blankets. He readies a repulsor blast and stops at the last minute when he fully shakes off his sleepiness.

The window is empty.

Tony keeps his gauntlet aimed towards it, regardless. “FRIDAY? Did you sense anything outside my window?”

The AI clicks on a second later. “Cameras haven’t picked up anything unusual there, boss.”

“Huh. Okay.” He watches the window for a few more minutes, then slowly retracts his gauntlet, shaking his hand in the pattern needed to bring them back into the shape of his watch. He falls back onto the bed and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He tries to will himself back into sleep.

It’s the stress getting to him. 

The only thing that can crawl up the side of his building is Peter, after all.

*** * ***

FRIDAY wakes him a few hours later. He staggers for the shower, and pulls on a fresh set of clothes. Slacks, a button down, and one of his more comfortable suit coats. All of his jeans and band shirts are, oddly enough, in the wash. Possibly because he’s worn nothing else aside from yesterday’s suit. He runs a distracted hand through his hair, sighs at the sight of his own pale, weary face in the mirror, and leaves his rooms. 

Tony walks into the kitchen in the common room, reaching for the coffee that FRIDAY started for him the moment he rolled out of bed. The room is playing host to a couple of people, which doesn’t surprise him. Steve is reading a newspaper (an honest to god _newspaper_ , like it's 1992) with the headline 'FIFTH HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN QUEENS' printed across the top, sitting at the counter while a cup of coffee steams in one hand. Clint is stuffing his face with eggs and sausage, and he visibly perks up at the sight of Tony. It’s strange to see the old crew hanging around in the common room again. And it’s stranger still to realize how normal and natural it feels. They never did this much before the Sokovia Accords, but the few times they did, it was easy and pleasant.

“Anything to report, FRIDAY?” Tony asks, still trying to push through his exhaustion as he holds his coffee. He had been hoping the shower would wake him up more.

“Something triggered the sensors on the roof last night.”

Tony frowns. “What triggered it?”

“I’m not sure. Four of the sensors are damaged and require replacement. There is a strange biological material on the cameras.”

“That sounds like pigeons to me,” Clint says sleepily, hovering over his coffee.

“Pigeons don’t usually make it this far up,” Tony says, frowning. He thinks of the _thing_ in his window last night and feels an odd chill. "Maybe the storm last night? I’ll go out and take a look at it later.”

Rhodey walks in, looking as exhausted as Tony feels, the whir of his leg braces follows him into the kitchen and over to the food someone’s cooked and left out.

“Rough night, Rhodey?” Clint asks. 

“Nightmares,” Rhodey replies, piling up two plates with eggs and sausage. “Just nightmares. Where’s Sam?”

“On his way back from the morning search,” Steve answers, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside. 

“Any luck?” Tony asks.

“No, nothing. I’m not sure if--”

“Something is going on with the Life Foundation,” a voice cuts in, low and tired. Natasha walks in from the elevator, running a hand through her hair and looking thoughtful. She stops at Tony’s coffee maker and pours herself a worryingly large cup before leaning back against the counter to regard the others.

“What kind of something?” Steve asks.

“A ‘damage control’ kind of something,” Natasha replies, taking a sip of coffee. “Carlton Drake is in town and has ordered all of the Life Foundation offices and warehouses in the city get cleaned out and sold by the end of the month, the quicker the better. The building where Clint and I found that laptop has been stripped to the foundation and sold.”

“That’s not suspicious or anything,” Clint says dryly. 

“I was able to get to it first. I grabbed the rest of the boxes belonging to Richard Parker and dropped them off at your lab, Tony,” Natasha says, turning to face him. “It looked like keepsakes more than anything else, but there might be something useful there.”

“I’ll take a look.” He raises his coffee mug and taps it against hers. “Nice work.”

“I do my best,” Natasha says, tired, but amused. 

A pleasant _ding_ from the elevator and a deeply frustrated sigh signals Sam’s arrival. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it up, rubbing his eyes. He looks exhausted and defeated as he drops into a stool beside Rhodey. Rhodey nudges the second plate he prepared over to Sam and Sam nods his thanks.

“Any luck, Sam?” Steve asks.

“No, nothing,” Sam mutters, punctuating his words with a vicious stab of his fork into his food. “People aren’t staying out at night these days. Hell, there aren’t even many homeless guys in that neighborhood. I asked a few guys why it’s such a ghost town and they said their friends keep going missing around there so they’ve moved out. They say it’s a death trap.”

“That’s what I’ve been hearing, too,” Rhodey says, rubbing his eyes. He turns to Tony. “We’ve hit dead ends out in the city, Tony. Have the cops found anything?”

“Nothing yet.” He drains the rest of his coffee. “Sounds like the laptop is our best bet at the moment. I’ll go down and get started on it.”

“It sounds like Richard was the subject of some corporate espionage. You might want some extra eyes on whatever you find in there,” Clint says, standing up with a lazy stretch. 

“I can handle--”

“He’s right, Tony,” Rhodey says quietly. “We won’t crowd you.”

Tony hesitates, then rolls his eyes. “Fine, but don’t touch anything unless I give you the green light.”

“Deal,” Clint says.

* * *

Tony isn’t comfortable having the whole crew sit in his lab, but Clint is right. They might notice something that slips by his notice. Hell, a part of him wonders if he hasn’t already missed some damning clue leading straight to Peter; something about Peter’s backpack has been tugging at the back of his mind ever since Natasha and Clint brought it back. And, well, he’s not delusional enough to consider himself objective when it comes to Peter and his family, and the Rogues are distant enough to maintain that objective outlook. For example, if he finds out Richard Parker is actually a mad scientist and a massive prick, he’s probably going to be a _little_ distracted.

And if he’s being honest, despite his discomfort, he doesn’t want to be alone in the lab. It’s odd having the whole crew inside it, but the lab’s been feeling awfully empty since Peter’s disappearance, and Tony’s found that he sometimes works better with someone nearby to bounce ideas off of. First with Rhodey, then Bruce, then Peter. 

He walks through the sliding doors ahead of the others and heads straight for the lab table in the center of the room where FRIDAY’s processing center is placed. The others file in behind him, looking at the various suits, half built cars, and projects spread across the tables that line the room. Whatever quiet conversations they’d been having among each other falls silent as they take in the lab and the new additions.

He points to Peter’s table next to his work station. “Don’t touch anything over there. I’m keeping Pete’s projects on hold until he gets back.”

“You got it, Tony,” Steve says. He and the rest of the Avengers take up positions around the lab far from Peter and Tony’s work stations, giving him space to work and also clearly taking Tony’s instruction to heart. Which is a point in their favor. 

Actually, one of many. He still can’t believe they’re doing this for him. Helping him.

Tony takes in a deep breath, steadies himself, and then turns to face his work station, pulling out the cleaned and repaired laptop from FRIDAY’s processing unit. It looks practically new without the dust and dirt caked all over it. Even the label with Richard Parker’s name etched across it looks new, and Tony’s curious as to how FRIDAY pulled _that_ little miracle off. He runs his thumb across it, and then examines the laptop fully.

_Better treat this gently,_ he thinks. _Pete will want to see this when he gets back._

Richard Parker’s laptop is laughably ancient, but that isn’t too surprising given that it’s from the long ago year of 2008. The screen is a dim sort of LCD that flickers and rolls, and the keyboard trembles with each touch. The bulk of it is shockingly sturdy, however; the thing is as thick as a brick, and three times as heavy. It’s barely capable of being called ‘portable’ by today’s standards. Back in 2008, this laptop would’ve been considered bleeding edge. These days, Peter’s phone is five times as powerful. Hell, Peter’s _watch_ probably carries more processing power.

He opens it and presses the power button. And waits. 

Some lights flicker on the laptop, indicating the CPU’s hard at work doing....something. Tony can hear the harddrive spin up, and considers that a good sign, at least. He’s a little amused that he even remembered to listen for that; some habits apparently don’t die.

The BIOS screen appears. A loading bar at the bottom of the screen moves in fits and starts and then pauses at seventy five percent.

“God, I forgot how slow these things used to be,” Tony mutters, drumming his fingers along the surface of his work table. “I can’t believe we put up with this.”

“Speak for yourself. I could get breakfast and coffee while waiting for mine to load up back in the day,” Sam says.

“How much effort did it take to get that thing working anyway?” Clint asks, hopping up to sit on a table nearby, even though there’s a stool not even three feet away.

“FRIDAY had to clear out all of the dust, build a new battery and replace a few cords, but not much more than that,” Tony says idly. It’s still powering on. He can’t even imagine how much time Richard Parker lost in his day simply waiting for his laptop to become functional in the morning. “Frankly, it’s impressive the harddrive is still functional. Either Richard Parker was a futurist--and it’s a damn shame he never tried working for me, if that’s the case--or he was a techie who wanted the shiniest and newest laptop he could squeeze out of his bosses. Which I can also respect.”

If he’s being completely honest, he’d probably respect Richard Parker no matter what after spending so much time with his son.

The laptop takes another three minutes to bring up the desktop once it finishes booting up. It’s so cluttered with icons, files, and notes that Tony can barely see the family photo that serves as the background. He idly drags the icons away to get a clearer view of the picture and freezes when he sees it clearly. It’s one of Richard, Mary, and Peter at Christmas. Richard smiles proudly at the camera while Peter and Mary decorate the tree. His grin is lopsided, vaguely dorky, and painfully similar to Peter’s. The family resemblance is so strong that Tony’s thrown; in twenty years, Peter will likely be a mirror image of his father. 

Tony wonders if they’ll still have lab days when that day comes, and then shakes his head. He needs to focus; he starts to go through the laptop, ignoring the rest of the Avengers behind him. He doesn’t find much. In fact, he finds almost nothing. A shortcut to IRC, usenet’s Star Wars thread, a truly ancient version of Microsoft Excel, and shortcut to Richard’s hotmail account. The few emails he can find are mostly meeting reminders, a surprisingly heated debate concerning a theoretical fight between Neo from the Matrix and Luke Skywalker, an equally vibrant argument about Captain America taking on King Kong and Godzilla at the same time and little else. Nothing about his work.

“FRIDAY, start downloading what you can. I want backups of everything we find on this thing,” Tony says, idly tapping a few commands on his smart watch. “And for the love of god, mirror screen on the nearest holo projector. The resolution on this thing is horrible.”

“Got it, boss.” 

The holo screens appear around Tony, mirroring the desktop, a few new ones opening up larger files in their own separate screens that he reads through, saves, or flicks away. He starts to carefully poke through various files and programs. The harddrive is full, but all of the data he wants to find is encrypted. And encrypted _well._ Shockingly so, even by today’s standards. After two failed attempts to access the drive, he’s forced out by a timed lock.

“Okay, _that’s_ weird,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair. He braces a foot against the edge of the table and bounces the other. “He’s got a second drive in here and it’s completely locked down. FRIDAY?”

The AI is silent for a long moment, then speaks, “I can’t get in, boss. If I brute force it, the drive will self-destruct.”

“Self destruct?”

“Yes. There’s a security measure in place that will trigger.” FRIDAY brings up an x-ray image of the laptop, marking four small objects attached to the harddrive in red. 

“Okay, nice to know Richard made this thing a portable bomb he kept at his work desk every day,” Tony mutters. “Can you disable the physical security components?”

“There’s an 82% chance that I’ll trigger them if I attempt it right now, boss,” FRIDAY responds apologetically. “The material is old, and separating it from the motherboard could engage a killswitch on the entire system.”

“What the hell was he working on that he went to all that trouble?” Sam asks. “This is pretty unusual for scientists, right?”

“Something he desperately didn’t want his bosses to get a hold of,” Tony says, tapping his work table as he weighs his options. He can ask FRIDAY brute force it, theoretically, but there aren’t good odds he’ll gain access without messing something up. At best, the harddrive destroys itself and Tony will have to live with the knowledge that he’s destroyed one of the last mementos Richard Parker left on this world. At worst, Tony enters the ‘buy a new face’ market _and_ deal with the crushing guilt that comes with destroying something belonging to Peter’s father. He takes in a deep breath and clicks on the security login hidden beneath a mess of icons on the desktop. “Okay. You guys stand back. Let’s see if I can figure this out--”

Tony tries to access the harddrive one more time. A tinny, heavily robotic voice, slightly distorted by the subpar speakers, clicks on. “Security check. Please submit to a retinal scan.”

The laptop’s bulky case pops open, and reveals a scanner. Or it tries to. The cover hiding the scanner gets stuck halfway and it takes Tony a moment to pry it open without damaging anything. A dull red scanner peers out from the laptop’s bulky case, with a small laser readout.

“Huh,” Tony says, taken aback. This is _definitely_ not standard for laptops. “That’s interesting.”

“Please submit to a retinal scan,” the machine repeats. “Failure to comply will result in destruction of the device.”

“Hm,” Tony says, leaning back. “FRI, can you project a hologram of Peter’s eye above the sensor?”

“Of course.” A moment later, the AI does exactly that. A holographic image of Peter’s eye appears above the scanner. Most of the scanners today also check for blood pressure, temperature, and even brain activity to avoid the issue where the guard nearest to the scanner loses an eye to a spy. Tony hopes this laptop is just old enough for a portable scanner to be enough.

The laptop struggles for a moment as its processing power is briefly overwhelmed, but eventually it lets out a pleasant ding.

“Welcome, Peter Parker. Age check confirmed. Access granted.”

The screen flickers, and the disorganized mess of notes, folders, and program shortcuts straightens out into a carefully organized list of file folders labeled with dates, videos, documents, and spreadsheets detailing Richard’s research.

“You just had Peter’s eye scan on hand?” Sam asks.

“Added security for his suit,” Tony says offhandedly, paging through various program icons, text files, and a truly random assortment of spreadsheets that seem to be written in code. “If someone who _isn’t_ Peter puts on the mask for his suit, it makes sure the AI stays hidden and sends me an alert. The same is true for my suits these days, too.”

“Smart,” Clint says. 

“I’ve heard that rumor before,” Tony answers absentmindedly as he focuses on the screen in front of him. The files on the encrypted drive, unlocked by Peter’s retinal scan, are much better organized than the messy desktop, as if Richard took care to label all of them. “Hang tight, guys. I need to read through some of this.”

He finally reaches the meat of Richard’s research. Text files, excel sheets, logs and records of experiments. Chemical reactions, equations, and experiments painstakingly recorded in such a way that even Tony thinks even he could replicate it easily enough. Unpublished research papers sit unedited, and Tony takes a moment to skim read a few. What he finds doesn’t surprise him. Richard Parker was a brilliant man, equal to Bruce Banner at the very least, and that’s not something to scoff at. Bruce is the smartest man Tony knows.

He was also a good man, and good men don’t do well in business.

Tony idly pokes through the bulk of Richard Parker’s research. He’s not huge on biology, not to the same level as Bruce, but he can recognize brilliance when he sees it, and all of the research looks more than viable in his admittedly not-quite-an-expert opinion. 

And it was left to rot inside an old building in Queens for the better part of a decade, at least. A building Peter passed by on an almost daily basis. Did Peter know? Is that why he decided to go down that alleyway the day he disappeared? Hell, it’d explain his mood swings. Tony still can’t bring himself to go down the road where his parents (were murdered) died. It’d make sense for Peter to be more than a little moody.

It takes him a few more minutes to figure out exactly _what_ Richard was working on, and when he does, he freezes. His stomach drops, and he sighs, leaning back to rub his eyes. “Oh, fuck. No wonder they tried to steal this from him.”

“What is it?” Clint asks, leaning over Tony’s shoulder.

He looks up at Clint. “It’s a cancer vaccine. He was trying to cure a form of brain cancer.”

The only thing keeping it from being a viable cure is a lack of technology and funding, a point that Richard hits on repeatedly with notes left to himself. The frustration in that knowledge becomes more apparent and bitter the further Tony goes in his notes.

_‘Not enough processing power to do all of the simulations I need; scrounge computer shops? Take Pete along, he loves that stuff.’_

_‘A server blew last night. I have back ups, but that sets me back a few days until I can build another one.’_

_‘The grant fell through, likely due to sabotage from Trask’s people. I can’t afford to keep the lights on at night anymore. I’ll keep the servers running on low power, but that’s going to wear them out quicker. They aren’t supposed to power cycle like that.’_

_‘Peter needs a new kind of asthma treatment, I’m going to have to tighten my belt. I have enough to cover his medicine if I skip breakfast and lunch. Mary and Pete need the food more than I do anyway. I’m starting to get a bit fluffy around the middle anyway.’_

And on and on. Seeing Richard scrape by on an amount of money Tony would charitably consider pocket change is galling. The man used what was less than half of Tony’s shoe budget to fund research for a cure for cancer and did it _well,_ all while fighting a legal battle far outside his weight class _._ He literally skipped meals to make this work. It’s humbling. No wonder Peter turned out the way he did.

“I guess we can figure out why Trask tried to take it from him,” Sam says. “This would literally spark a war if word got out. Everyone would want it.”

“He was going to patent it and sell it at the lowest possible price. He wanted to make it freely available to everyone,” Tony says, rubbing his chin. “Trask had other ideas. Richard thought they were going to weaponize it somehow. It wouldn’t take much effort for Richard to pull that off, if he’d had any inclination towards it, and Trask’s people could pull it off if they had enough time to look at his research. Trask was going to keep the cure to sell at a premium to those who survived. Given some of the stories I’ve heard of Trask, I believe it.”

“So we’ve got a cure for cancer sitting in front of us?” Natasha asks.

“Cancer is dozens of diseases clumped together under one name. We have the start of _a_ _vaccine_ for one specific type of cancer.” He pauses. “And really, it doesn’t belong to us. This belongs to Peter.”

“What would he do with it if he was here right now?” Steve asks, arms crossed across his chest.

“Keep it somewhere safe,” Tony says, rubbing his chin. “FRIDAY, keep a copy of this on the most secure server we have.”

“Saving it to the Vault, boss,” FRIDAY replies.

“You think anyone is going to come looking for this?” Clint asks.

Trask Laboratories went bust during the fallout from the recession, before the lawsuit between itself and Richard could be resolved. No one _legally_ owns this research. Stark Industries is involved in the medical industry, but only so much; his company provides medical instruments and machines to hospitals and clinics at a low cost that still manages to be more than profitable (much to his own quiet horror). They aren’t equipped for the pharmaceutical industry and Tony isn’t eager to enter it; weapons production is a shady business, but it has nothing on the terrifying method of business common in pharmaceutical companies. Corporate espionage in those companies tends to be even bloodier than all other industries combined. The only company he knows of locally is Oscorp, and the less said or thought about Norman Osborn getting hold of this, the better.

There’s only one group he can think of who would handle this research with the respect and care it deserves until Peter comes home.

“FRIDAY, send a message to Princess Shuri and ask her if she’s available to take a call at some point in the future, preferably sooner rather than later. I think I have a project for her to keep safe for us.”

“Message sent, boss.”

“Thanks. Is there anything else on the drive I should see?” Tony asks, rubbing his eyes again. His stomach is gnawing at him. He probably should’ve eaten something before coming down here.

“Video files. It seems Mr. Parker kept a log of his work. The last one was recorded a week before his death. It’s the only one that we can access. The rest of the files have been corrupted.”

“There could be something useful there,” Rhodey says.

Tony hesitates, then nods. “Probably. FRIDAY, start the video for us.”

A holoscreen pops up, and Richard Parker sits in a chair in his cramped lab. Bags hang beneath his eyes, and his hair is ruffled, as if he’d been running his hands through it out of nervousness or frustration. Judging by the way he bounces his leg, the way he darts his eyes around his closet sized lab, and the harsh line of his mouth, Tony guesses it’s a mix of both. There’s a harsh rasp as Richard runs the palm of his hand across the blue stubble lining his cheek; his five o’clock shadow is just short of a beard, adding to his rumpled look.

“Things are at a stalemate right now, and I think they’ll stay that way for awhile. Maybe years. Until the lawsuits end, until I know who I can trust...” Richard sighs. Tony’s surprised by how soft the man’s voice is. There’s an accent there, a mix of Queens with the universal _nerd_ accent that seems to be common among scientists. “My research will go nowhere. I’ve managed to keep them from getting a hold of it--mostly because they’re not clever enough to break the encryption or figure out what I’ve done, thank god--but that just puts it in limbo.”

He glares past the camera, frustration etched into every line of his face. “People dying all over the world, living in pain, and all I wanted to do was try to _help_ them. And I almost did! I was _so close._ ”

Frustration leaves his features completely now, replaced by something close to despair. “I watched my dad wither away and die from this. He never got to meet Peter. Before I die, I want to do this much. Rid the world of this. I never want another kid to go through what I did. To watch their father die and not understand why. And I figured it out! It was pure luck, probably, but...”

Richard trails off then and sighs again. He reaches up and runs a palm down his face, seeming to age five years in a matter of seconds. He isn’t broken, but Tony can tell that it probably wouldn't have taken much more pressure from Trask to do that kind of damage to the man.

“Mary’s right. Maybe a vacation will help me recenter. Peter shouldn’t see me like this. He deserves better,” Richard mutters. He reaches out and ends the recording.

The screen goes dark. Tony stares at the blank screen, frustration starting to build. “Is that it?”

“That’s all,” FRIDAY answers.

Tony scowls. That was less than helpful. In fact, it’s borderline useless. They discovered what Richard Parker had been working on before his death, but there aren’t any clues as to how that’s involved in Peter’s disappearance. Richard never mentioned being followed, stalked, or threatened; just lawsuits. Tony’s relieved the man didn’t suffer like that before his death, but if there’s some grand conspiracy behind Peter going missing, there’s precious little indication of it in Richard’s research. All he’s found is a scientific breakthrough that will change the world and the last words of a nearly broken man.

Tony stops and then snorts at himself. Right. He’s _only_ found the cure for cancer, created by a father who died too soon. “Did you guys see anything that could help us or are you just as lost as I am?”

“Motive,” Natasha says quietly. “You accessed this research with a scan of Peter’s eye. If that’s the only way to find it, he could have been kidnapped for that alone.”

“In which case, that’s good news,” Clint says thoughtfully. At Tony’s startled look, he shrugs. “It means they need him alive. Killing people is messy and hard to clean up. Most professionals avoid it as much as they can, and that goes double for kids. Maybe triple for kids with a connection to the Avengers.”

Tony can’t tell if he’s trying to soothe his nerves or not, but it’s not entirely working. “Great. They’ve had him for two weeks. Which means they don’t have the research, just the key _to_ the research.”

“And they’ve been keeping the police busy in the meantime while they try to find the research,” Steve says quietly.

“What do you mean?” Tony asks, turning to face him.

Steve frowns, gathering his thoughts, then clears his throat. “FRIDAY? Could you please bring up a map of the recent killings that have taken place across Queens?”

“Yes, Captain,” FRIDAY responds. The nearest holoscreen shifts into a map of Queens, with five red markers spread across burrough. Times scroll out from each red marker, and Tony is shocked to see the last one occurred the same time when he visited the police station yesterday. 

Steve is more comfortable with technology today, but he still hesitates and thinks before shifting the map around and tapping the markers. Images of the crime scenes pop up, and he seems briefly startled by that before moving on. “There’s been a string of random killings lately. Nat and I have been keeping tabs on it when we’re not busy. All of the victims are criminals, usually the worst kind. Human traffickers, professional hitmen, that kind of criminal. The police think they have a serial killer on their hands, and they’ve already called in the FBI for help.”

Clint pauses, frowning, then scoffs. “I should’ve noticed that sooner. Professional agents will mimic serial killers sometimes if they’re short on time. It’s not a clean way to go about a mission, but I’ve seen worse. Murders will tie up a short staffed police agency like the NYPD for weeks at a time.”

“You think the kidnapping was a way for someone to open Richard’s research?” Sam asks.

“It would make sense. Biometrics back then relied mostly on retinal scans,” Tony replies, expanding a map of the city. His hands shake slightly, and he has to clench them into fists, tucking them under his arms after the map extends. “The question, then, is why there are so _many_ headless corpses around the city.”

“It muddies the water, keeps the police busy, and makes it easier to hide a kidnapping in plain sight. It’s a bit extravagant, but I’ve seen it before,” Clint says, looking at the map. “But the problem is, professional agents will follow a serial killer’s pattern. The same type of victim and the same method in each murder, and that’s where things are different here. Peter isn’t like the rest of the victims. He stands out like a sore thumb. The same goes for the Life Foundation employees who went missing the same day as Peter.”

“And?”

“And I think that’s important. Either we’re dealing with an amateur or there’s something we’re missing. Every other victim is the worst kind of criminal--human traffickers, hit men, and mob enforcers. Unless your kid was running some kind of underground mafia with a bunch of Life Foundation employees when you weren’t looking, it stands out as really goddamn weird.”

“It’d take more than an amateur to take out Peter,” Tony mutters, but he nods to Clint. “Right. Okay. Let’s take a closer look at the victims--”

“Boss, May Parker and Happy have come to the Tower,” FRIDAY says, interrupting them. “They’ll be at the penthouse shortly.”

Tony looks up, frowning. “Here? I thought May was staying at her apartment.”

“She wanted to see you,” FRIDAY responds. “Happy didn’t get the chance to let you know. He seems...upset.”

Tony’s frown deepens, and he looks at the map hovering in front of himself for a few moments before sighing and pushing away from the work table. He ignored May Parker’s concerns once already, and he’s not eager to repeat that mistake. “I’m on the way.”

“We’ll stay here and work,” Natasha says. “If we find anything, we’ll let you know.”

Tony nods, half listening to her as he makes his way to the doors. May’s arrival is bothering him on some level; a strange coldness has started to twist through his gut and he feels slightly off kilter. It could be guilt; facing the woman whose child you’ve lost can definitely inspire more than a little of that. But he doesn’t believe that. He knows guilt. This is different.

“Call me immediately if you find something.”

*** * ***

The elevator doors open to the penthouse less than five minutes later. The living room and kitchen feels different in the grey, dreary light of late morning without the Avengers lounging around in their favorite spots. It feels emptier, dimmer somehow. 

Best not to dwell on that too hard. Tony focuses on the woman standing in the kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee. May looks different, though her outfit isn’t unusual or out of place for her style. Actually, that’s not quite true; she looks fucking terrible, and Tony imagines he doesn’t look much better these days. A streak of her hair at the temple has turned gray, and her eyes seem deeper, wearier. The flame inside May Parker is still there, but it’s dimmed over the past two weeks. Tony hates to see her like this and almost misses the frankly terrifying encounter they had when she first discovered Peter’s secret. He’d take furious, two-steps-away-from-justified-homicide May Parker over grief stricken May Parker any day.

She looks over at him when he leaves the elevator and offers him a small, warm smile. She sets the mug of coffee down before walking over to meet him. She takes his hands, squeezing them comfortingly.

He stares at their hands, momentarily startled, then looks up at her again.

“Hi, Tony,” she says. “You look terrible.”

That shakes a weak laugh out of him. “It’s a new look. I’m making it work.” He squeezes her hands, a bit awkwardly, and lets them go. “What brings you here?” 

“Detective Brannigan called. She said she wanted to talk to both of us, and I suggested she come here. I hope that’s all right?”

“More than alright. If she’s found something, I want the Avengers to hear it, too,” Tony replies. “They’re down in the lab, looking for Peter, too.”

May sighs. “Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate that.” She stops, eyes him warily. “When did you last eat?”

“Yesterday,” he admits.

“You’d better fix that. If she’s found Peter, I don’t want you fainting and cracking your head on the floor,” May says. “Come on.”

They sit at the kitchen island, sharing the leftover sausage and eggs from this morning. Neither of them speak while they eat, and a strange tension seems to build in the silence of the penthouse. The grey clouds rolling past the penthouse windows make the room feel chill and isolated, despite the comfortable temperature FRIDAY keeps the building at.

“Detective Brannigan is at the front desk and requesting permission to see you, boss,” FRIDAY says, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Send her up.” Tony pushes his plate back. He’d only managed to eat half of what May put on it. He stands and walks towards the elevator, adjusting his shirt and coat. In the corner of his eye, he can see May shakily set her coffee mug down and stare at the elevator doors, hope and apprehension warring for dominance across her features.

Detective Brannigan steps out of the elevator a few minutes later. Her expression is smoothly neutral, and Tony can feel that icy cold in his stomach begin to do a slow roll.

“Detective Brannigan, I’m hoping you have good news for us,” Tony says.

The detective, for her part, manages to keep her expression professional. "You may want to sit down, Mr. Stark."

The walls of the penthouse shift closer, and his eyesight narrows. "I'll stand, thanks."

That gets him no response aside from a slight nod. The detective's lack of warmth bothers him and he has a sinking feeling when he realizes why. She's come with bad news.

That's not good at all.

"Mrs. Parker, my partner thinks he's found your nephew," the detective says carefully.

May starts spilling coffee over her hands. Her voice is steady, but hopeful and more than a little wary. If the police had good news, they would start the conversation off in a completely different way. "You aren't sure."

Brannigan doesn't blink. "We found a body in an alley in Queens that matches the description of your nephew. We need samples of your DNA to identify the body to be sure."

Tony sways on his feet and clutches the edge of the couch. In his head, all he can hear are the words _body in an alley_ echoing across his thoughts.

“It won’t help,” May says numbly. She’s much paler now, and tears have started to form in her eyes. “We’re not related by blood.”

Brannigan turns to Tony. He bristles.

“Despite what the news would have you believe, he’s not related to me by blood either,” Tony says stiffly. “Peter’s family isn’t related to him by blood.

Brannigan doesn’t look surprised by this; she nods. “Do you have his fingerprints on file?”

Tony shakes his head. “No. I have a retinal scan of his eye, but other than that I’ve avoided taking anything from him. I try not to keep biometric data on my employees or interns unless it’s absolutely necessary. Seems a bit too--” He waves a hand, searching for the right word, then shrugs. “--icky? My security systems are top notch. The cameras recognize Peter and let him into places he needs to go. The super secret labs take a retina scan. I don’t need anything more than that for a sixteen year old."

Also the fact that even the most secure server can fail, and Tony would rather not risk having Peter’s DNA set loose if at all possible. Enhanced DNA carries a heavy price on the black market, and there are rumors of cloning and highly unethical experiments floating around with increasing regularity. The last thing anyone needs is an evil clone of Peter Parker swinging through New York.

Brannigan purses her lips. “In that case, I need both of you to come with me.”

Tony nods. “Fine. Where to?”

“The morgue,” Brannigan says simply, standing up. She eyes them both, and Tony can see a weary sympathy in her eyes. “I can drive you both, if you’d like.”

“We have a driver,” Tony says, marveling at how oddly calm his voice is. The ball of ice in his stomach begins to thaw, though his unease doesn’t quite leave him. “We’ll meet you there, detective.”

Brannigan hesitates, but nods. “Drive safe.”

She walks back to the elevator, hesitates at the doors for a brief moment, and then enters it. May stares after her, pale and trembling slightly. 

“It isn’t him, May,” Tony says, walking over to her and hesitantly placing a hand on her shoulder. “It can’t be. They’ve found someone else. This is just mistaken identity. I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be sure?” And she looks so _hopeful_ when she asks that Tony can’t bear to see it. He doesn’t have any logical answer for her. This is simply fierce disbelief. Pure denial.

He looks away from her eyes, suddenly ashamed of how much she’s come to trust him. “I just am. Come on. FRIDAY, have Happy meet us in the garage. And tell the others where we’re going if they ask.”

“Yes, boss,” FRIDAY replies, and even her tone seems strange to his ears.

The elevator ride to the garage is silent except for the quiet whir of the elevator car as it travels. May appears calm, but there’s a slight tremble to her hands, and she stares blankly at the wall past Tony’s head. Tony, for his part, stares at the mirror polish of his shoes, his thoughts roaring through his head in a mad whirlwind.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out. A text message from Rhodey pops up.

_You call me if you need me,_ it says.

A bit of the icy dread thaws when he sees that. He sends back a quick acknowledgement and pockets his phone just as the elevator doors open. May steps out first, and Tony is quick to follow. One way or the other, he wants this little trip done as quickly as possible.

“Where to?” Happy asks, opening the door for May.

“FRIDAY has the address,” Tony says, ducking into the car after May.

Happy frowns at Tony’s response, pulling out his phone to check the address. He freezes for a moment, then fumbles for his door. They pull out of the garage and into heavy midmorning traffic in silence. 

Happy says nothing on the drive downtown, but he keeps glancing at Tony and May during the drive. Even his normal grumbling about the traffic is oddly muted. May reaches over and silently takes Tony’s hand in her own.

He clutches her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

It seems like no time has passed at all when Happy brings the car to a stop outside of a drab building somewhere in Queens. 

“We’re here,” he says.

“Keep the car running,” Tony says, pushing his door open and stepping out into the chill autumn air. He forgot to bring a coat, and the wind cuts right through his suit jacket. He fights back a shiver, reaching in to help May out of the car.

They walk into the building, pressing closer to one another subconsciously as they make their way inside. The room that greets them is utilitarian. Tile floor, beige walls, and a drop panel ceiling with fluorescent lights hanging above. Brannigan is standing next to a simple desk with a man in a white coat, speaking quietly to one another. The man, middle aged and pale, with a carefully trimmed brown beard, stands when he notices them enter and offers a respectful nod.

“Mrs. Parker, Mr. Stark, thank you for coming on such short notice. We’ll try to keep this as brief as possible,” the man says, his tone polite and professional.

“I think we’d both appreciate that,” Tony replies, his tone bland and, for once, devoid of the usual confidence and self assurance. 

“Of course. Due to the state of the body, we can’t exactly show you it. We do have a number of items we found on their person that may belong to Peter. We’ll need you to confirm whether they’re his or not.” The man looks apologetic. “Without DNA samples....”

“What the hell do you mean ‘the state of the body’?” Tony asks.

“There’s significant trauma. Our policy--” The technician struggles, clearly trying to find the correct words. Finally, he settles with, “You don’t want to see him like this, if it is him. Trust me.”

“Like _what?_ ”

“The body has no head, Mr. Stark,” the man replies simply, earning himself a sharp look from the detective. May sucks in a breath and sways on her feet. “You don’t want to see that.”

Things become muted after that. Tony reaches out to steady May numbly. For once in his life, he has nothing to say.

“Detective Brannigan will take you to an observation room,” the man says. “I’ll meet you there shortly.”

He turns and leaves, walking down a sterile hallway and ducking through a heavy steel door that seals shut behind him. Detective Brannigan sighs, turning to face them.

“This way, please,” she says, before turning and walking down that same hallway.

Tony is seized by a sudden urge to run. He wants to turn and sprint through the doors to the parking lot and right back into his car, dragging May along with him. His earlier denial seems weaker now, less sure, and he wants nothing more than to cling to that earlier conviction. This isn’t happening. Peter isn’t in this terribly silent place. They have it wrong.

Please let them be wrong.

Brannigan takes them to a small room with a window looking into a lab. She stands off to the side of the door, giving them space. The room they’re in is cold, dim, and claustrophobic. May moves closer to him, as if seeking reassurance. He’s not sure he’s at all capable of providing it.

The urge to run grows stronger. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

The man in the white coat enters the room on the other side of the glass. He brings in a small bin full of carefully packed and marked items and sets it on a metal table on the other side of the glass. He’s wearing a mask and rubber gloves, and opens the bin carefully, picking up a brown paper bag and pulling out a leather jacket.. 

The brown leather jacket is stained and stiff from dried blood. Tony can only stare at it, at how _much_ blood there is, and how it’s soaked from the top to the bottom, as if buckets hand been poured across the inside of it. The material crackles as the man holds the jacket out towards the window, handling it gently. The brown material has been stained a deep black except for the white cotton that lines the inside. There it resembles a dull, reddish brown across the matted material.

And on the tag, in thick black marker visible through the dull brown stain, are the words _S. Rogers._

May recognizes it as quickly as he does and freezes, clinging to Tony’s arm. She lets out a strangled noise caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.

The urge to flee disappears, leaving a void behind. Tony’s denial crumbles, and he’s left with the cold truth some part of him has suspected for the past week.

Peter Parker is dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Things become a blur for Tony after that. He hears his name a few times, but it never quite pierces the roaring sound filling his ears and the odd, fuzzy quality of the room. Mentally, he's not in the morgue. He's in his lab, receiving a call from May Parker, and this time, he takes her seriously.

The detective tries to speak with him, but eventually gives up. He's aware of May taking charge, talking to both the man from the morgue and the detective. The only thing to pierce his shocked delusion is a simple sentence from the man that brings Tony back to reality.

"We'll hold onto him until funeral arrangements can be made," he says.

"Thank you," May replies shakily. "I don't have anything planned yet---I never thought--"

"I understand, Mrs. Parker," the man replies, his tone gentle and sympathetic. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"So am I," May says weakly. She goes quiet for a moment, then seems to shake herself awake. "Tony? Tony, look at me."

His vision is focused on the freezer drawers lining the room on the other side of the glass. He wonders which one is holding Peter ( _the body has no **head** , Mr. Stark_)--

"Tony." 

He starts, turning to face May. She’s watching him with the careful concern of a nurse, looking him over as if afraid he’ll keel over in front of her. She might be right. It feels as if the earth has suddenly shifted at an angle.

"Let's go. We don't need to be here anymore,” May says gently, punctuating her words with a slight squeeze on his wrist.

“I...right. Yeah. Let’s go.” 

May nods, guiding him out of the room and back into the hall. The man in the white coat and the detective both watch him with nothing short of sympathy. He doesn’t like that for several reasons, chief among them being that _May_ should be the focus of their sympathy. The fact that she hasn’t fallen apart yet is astounding. 

A large part of himself is ashamed that he leans against her as they head for the exit and the rain splattered car waiting for them. If May hadn’t taken charge, he probably would’ve collapsed into full shock right there in that observation room. They leave the morgue, and stand in the parking lot. May is still clinging to his arm, both to guide him and to support herself.

Happy is at their side in an instant. “Boss?”

“Get us home, Hap.”

“Yeah, sure,” Happy says, walking over to open the door. He hesitates, his expression warring between hope and dread. “Is it--”

“It’s him,” Tony says quietly. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It almost feels like someone else is speaking. 

Happy freezes again, his eyes darting back and forth between Tony and May, growing pale in the grey light of the day. Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, momentarily dizzy. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and says,“Just get us home. We’ll worry about everything else later.”

Happy stares at him, frozen, then nods jerkily. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Tony helps May into the car and slides in beside her. Happy closes the door behind them, oddly careful and gentle. He sits in front and pulls away from the curb and the morgue itself. The ride is silent save for the sound of the rain ticking against the window and roof of the car. Tony stares at the road past Happy’s head, drifting. May clings to his arm, staring straight ahead, eyes glazed and red rimmed from tears.

After a few moments, Tony shifts, pulling out his phone, and calls the first person he can think of.

Pepper answers on the first ring. “Tony?”

Tony isn’t sure how to have this conversation. Pepper is just as close to Peter as he is; something that was inevitable, given how close they are. He’s found the two of them giggling over a TV show or baking or discussing Peter’s plans for the future dozens of times since they’ve met. She’s threatened to steal Peter away as _her_ personal intern once or twice, mostly to jab at Tony and prompt a borderline jealous response.

“Tony, what’s going on?” There’s a thread of worry present in her voice now.

“The police came to see us,” Tony starts. He hesitates, groping for the right words to say when he realizes that she doesn’t _know,_ and he isn’t ready to say it out loud yet.The magnitude of the situation starts to set in then, and he can only manage a strangled, “I need you.”

“I’m on my way,” Pepper replies softly. “Okay? Take deep breaths. I’ll be on a plane in the next fifteen minutes. Is May with you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s, uh, right here. Happy’s driving us.” He feels like a child, desperately groping to remember how a normal conversation works. The world seems different and unsure now. He’s never stuttered like this before, not even as a child. That was trained out of him young, and it’s galling and terrifying to have it happen now.

“Have her stay at the tower tonight. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Yeah. Be safe,” Tony says. He’s suddenly seized with bone chilling fear. “If it isn’t safe, I can fly out there--”

“Tony, I’ll be fine,” Pepper says firmly. “And I’ll be home as soon as possible.”

“Right. Yeah.” He pauses. “Can you tell me when you get on the plane? Text me?”

“Of course, Tony,” Pepper replies. “As soon as I get there. I promise.”

“Good. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The line clicks off. The rest of the ride continues in silence. After some time, the rain fades as they pull into the garage, and the car slows to a stop. Tony pushes open the door and stands up. He’s not sure why he’s so eager to leave; he has nowhere to go. He stands in the garage, staring at the elevator as May steps out of the car and shuts the door behind herself.

“We’re here,” Happy says. He fidgets restlessly. “Listen, I, uh. I should--” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, clears his throat, and avoids their eyes. “I should go review the security detail. I know it’s not my job anymore, but--”

“Go ahead, Happy,” Tony says, cutting him off.

Happy gives them a quick nod and turns. He doesn’t move fast enough for Tony to miss the tears forming in his eyes, and Tony’s heart clenches.

_Why didn’t I go look for him that first night?_

The common room is full of people. Steve and Sam are sitting a map spread across the dining table near the windows. Natasha is scrolling through a holoscreen at the kitchen island, eyes roving over words too small for Tony to make out at this distance. Clint is the only one who seems to be moving, pacing around the room, arms crossed over his chest with a stony expression on his face. 

They all turn and look at Tony and May when they enter the room. Tony stares past them, cold, and dazed.

Steve stands up, taking in their appearance. “Tony? May? Is everything all right?”

Tony can only stare at him. "No. No, it's not alright."

May keeps it together for a few moments longer. She takes in a shuddering breath, trying to keep herself together. And crumples, pulling her hands away from Tony's arm and cupping her face in her hands. The sob she lets out sounds as broken and lost as Tony feels. Tony, feeling helpless, stands beside her, at a loss.

Sam is on his feet and at May’s side in an instant, gently touching her shoulder and speaking in low, soothing tones. He leads her away, keeping a steady hand on her back as he guides her towards a quieter room to the side.

“Tony?” Clint asks, unsure. He takes a few steps closer to Tony, not so subtly moving closer in case Tony himself collapses. "What happened?"

“We had to go identify... ” Tony says haltingly. He stops, losing his words momentarily before trying again. He barely recognizes his own voice. “The police found him. He’s gone.”

Clint freezes, sucking in a breath. “Oh, Jesus. Tony--”

Clint’s tone is wounded, borderline sick, and too fucking sincere. The last thing Tony wants is their pity right now. Tony turns away from them and leaves the penthouse without another word, stalking into the elevator. He jabs at the buttons and stares past them, letting FRIDAY slide the doors closed. 

The elevator ride is a blur of nothingness. FRIDAY tracks his vitals, and can recognize his moods and adjust her actions accordingly. Usually she would offer a snarky comment or two by now, or a dry observation at the very least. She’s silent now, and stays that way as the elevator comes to a stop inside his lab. 

He stands there for a moment, clenching his fists, finally allowing the full weight of what’s happened to settle on himself now that he’s alone. A part of him feels guilty for leaving May, but a larger part knows he’d be useless to her in her time of need. 

Just like he was when she called him. 

He is such a _goddamn **failure**_ \--

The anger takes him then, sweeping through and filling his mind until he’s nearly blinded by it. What happens next is nothing short of an apocalyptic shit fit. His latest project ends up denting the wall, chairs are kicked over, screens crushed and smashed. By the end of it, he’s slumped against the back wall, head in his hands, his heart in turmoil. The only things to survive his rage are Peter's projects and Richard's laptop.

All of his worst fears realized, a refresher course on his failure as a human being.

Rhodey finds him like that a few hours later. He grips Tony's shoulder briefly before slowly sitting down beside him on the floor, avoiding shards of glass and twisted metal. Tony really did do a number on this place.

Tony can't look at him. He fiddles with one of Peter's webshooter prototypes he’d found in a drawer. One of the slimmer models he’d experimented with before settling on the one he uses with his suit. "Is May all right?"

"She's handling it about as well as you. Sam and Clint are helping her right now," Rhodey replies. His own voice is muted, weary and thick with grief. Rhodey adored Peter; he'd become something of a teasing uncle to the kid the few times they'd been able to meet and spend time together. Tony knows he’s overheard the kid calling Rhodey before.

Tony nods, numbly testing the tension on the web shooter. The button to release the web always gets stuck on this one; a minor design flaw, and more a product of the materials used than Peter's engineering. He’d always been proud of Peter’s design skills.

"I haven't seen that one before," Rhodey says idly.

"It's one of the first ones he made. It works, but it has problems. Minor ones. Honestly, it's good work for someone who basically taught himself the basics of engineering with a library card and stuff he found in a dumpster," Tony says, fitting his wrist inside the shooter. The weight of it is oddly comforting. Grounding. He sighs. "The kid wanted to destroy it when he found the flaw. He wanted to recycle the materials. I told him that wasn't allowed. You always keep your prototype. It's important to see where you started." 

Rhodey's smile is soft and sad. "You were good for each other."

Tony leans back against the work table. "All of it came from him.” Tony’s mind drifts over to the table he set aside for Peter in his lab. It’s the only thing to survive his grief induced tantrum earlier. “He said if having a prototype is so important, then I should keep these for him. I was going to make a little display case for them and put them up in the lab with all of the other prototypes. See how long it'd take for him to notice, you know?"

"Sap," Rhodey says fondly, as if there aren’t tears in his eyes. "He would've loved that."

Tony nods, toying with the webshooter's trigger. The button sticks, and Tony releases it. There’s a loud _click_ that echoes through the lab as the button slips back into its proper place.

And that’s all it takes for the dam to break.

Tony lasts barely another second before he collapses, covering his face. The tears start with a choked sob and swiftly builds from there, his grief overwhelming him so quickly that he has no choice but to let it drown him. He hasn’t heard himself cry since his parents’ deaths so long ago. He hasn’t _allowed_ himself to cry like this since then.

Rhodey pulls him into a fierce hug, just as he did so many years ago when Tony's parents died.

For the second time in his life, Tony is comforted by his best friend after losing his family.

*** * ***

Rhodey, eventually, falls asleep comforting Tony, leaving the man to his own devices. For all his many traits, Rhodey has never handled all nighters well, and that goes double after he hit thirty. Late nights just don’t work for him.

The opposite is true for Tony. Especially tonight. 

Tony staggers out of the lab, toying with the webshooter around his wrist, heading for the kitchen. He wants a drink. For the first time since he quit drinking, he wants to lose himself in alcohol and drugs, and anything else that might dull his grief, even for a moment. He knows it’ll disappoint Pepper. He knows Rhodey will look at him with that patient, despairing look he’s perfected over their friendship as he watches Tony make yet another self destructive decision bound to cause him nothing but pain in the long run. 

He knows this. He just doesn’t care.

When he gave up drinking, he was proud of the fact that he could keep a bottle of brandy in the kitchen and not feel pressured to grab it and immediately down half off of it. It was a mark of maturity, of how far he’s come from his playboy days. How he’s grown and overcome hurdles in his life he created for himself.

Not anymore.

At least he won’t have to worry about the Rogues stumbling in on him being a disappointment. He hasn’t seen them since he came back from the police station with May. He assumes they’ve left, which would suit him just fine. So he goes into the kitchen, and opens up a cabinet in the far corner. And finds it empty.

He stares at the blank spot on the shelf, flabbergasted. He left a bottle here, hidden away, for emergencies. He can still picture it in his mind. He saw it last month when Peter opened the cabinet to go and grab the horrifically overly processed cereal sitting on the shelf above his hidden brandy.

“Nat and May took it last night,” Steve says from behind him. “They said it was best if it disappeared for awhile.”

Tony jumps, whirling around to face the man. Steve has his elbows braced on the kitchen island between them, looking tired and worn. Tony meets his heartbroken, steady gaze for less than a second before turning back around and starting coffee instead. “I thought you people left.”

“We wouldn’t do that to you. Not after what's happened,” Steve replies.

_You did before._ Tony almost says it. He doesn't; his emotions are already fluctuating wildly. He doesn't have the mental capacity to start another war against Steve, and he suspects the man won't rise to the fight anyway. He jabs the buttons on the coffeemaker. "It's my fault he's gone, you know. I didn't go looking for him until the next morning."

"This isn’t your fault, Tony," Steve says patiently. 

Steve’s low, gentle tone infuriates him. Tony looks away from him, rummaging through the kitchen, looking for something to focus on other than Steve.

"Yes, it is. He can-- _could_ \--handle himself so I figured he was just out blowing off steam. How stupid is that?" He rubs his eyes. “I tried to set boundaries. Tried to be there and keep some sort of distance so he didn’t follow in all of my fucked up footsteps. That didn’t work, so I tried this whole mentoring thing. Guess what? That wasn't fucking worth it."

His tone is anything but convincing, and Steve only looks more heartbroken. Tony’s picking up steam, however, and his frustrated rant kicks into high gear as he starts pawing through the cabinets.

"You know May called me when he didn’t come home? She _knew_ something was wrong and I blew her off because I was so goddamned focused on those fucking nanobots I wanted to show off in front of him like they fucking matter at _all_ , and now he’s gone, and _I should have looked for him_.”

The last part is emphasized with Tony slamming a drawer shut hard enough for the sound to echo across the penthouse. He’s half surprised it doesn’t draw in anyone else; Clint’s room is right down the hall, and Natasha’s room is next to his. Tony has no doubt that they can hear his tantrum.

“You can’t blame yourself for everything bad that happens in your life, Tony,” Steve says. “Contrary to popular belief, not every bad thing that happens in this world is your fault.”

“Then who the fuck do I blame? You? Ned? May, for allowing me to ever come near her kid?” Tony yanks open another cabinet and grabs a mug. He fumbles, from exhaustion or grief, and drops it. It shatters on the floor and he slams the cabinet closed, kicking at the shards. He whirls around to face Steve. “Or how about the kid? I tracked his phone’s movements for the week he went missing. He _always_ walks by that street without a second glance, _except for the day he disappeared._ He must’ve heard or seen something and gone in to handle it alone like an _idiot_ \--”

Steve doesn’t interrupt. He just watches and lets Tony rant. Tony is thankful for that, on some level. 

“You know how we had to identify him? With your jacket. Because they can't find his head! Guess it’ll have to be a closed casket, huh?”

That makes Steve drop his gaze and look away, but Tony catches the heartbroken, ill expression on his face.

Tony regrets mentioning that at all. Not just because he’s likely traumatized Steve with that information, but because he’s just given _himself_ a nightmare or two by even mentioning it. His mind is overactive in every regard, including his imagination. It’s all too easy to imagine Peter--

He suddenly feels sick and braces himself against the kitchen island before sitting down heavily on one of the stools. He puts his head in his hands and tries to control his breathing, staring at the polished marble countertop. 

He hears Steve stand up, move around to the kitchen behind him and start to clean up the broken coffee mug. Once he finishes, Tony hears him start the coffee machine with a quiet, ‘ _FRIDAY? Coffee._ ’ as he pulls another mug from the cabinet.

Sometime later, Steve sits beside him. He sets the freshly brewed cup of coffee down in front of Tony, made just the way he likes it. Tony is so grateful for this small act of kindness from his former friend that he nearly breaks again.

“He would have loved meeting you,” Tony says wearily as he wraps his hands around the mug. “He would’ve talked your ear off, and I would’ve recorded the whole thing just to have that baffled, panicked look on your face. Would’ve turned it into a Christmas card.” 

Steve doesn’t answer. He just rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder and stays close.

Tony will never admit how much he needs that.

*** * ***

A few hours later, Tony finds himself in his bedroom, half asleep, and half aware of an argument he had with Steve before being ushered back into his bedroom suite. Something about Pepper coming in soon, and how he should lay down for at least a few minutes.

Well, he says ‘argument’ but it was more Steve weathering half awake grumbling insults from Tony as he guides him down the hall. Tony doesn’t want to sleep, but he can recognize when the choice has left him. His body feels heavy, and even the horror of the day has pretty much 

He showers, changes out of his clothes (he can still smell hints of the sterile cleaner the morgue’s hallways on his shirt and considers having it burned), and lays down. His body is exhausted, but his mind is still in turmoil. But he needs to rest, at least for a little while. He needs to be there to help May plan the funeral tomorrow. 

The sky outside his window is clear. Lights from the city below twinkle to match the stars above. It’s almost picturesque. He stares out of it for a long time before rolling over and closing his eyes.

He never did get around to checking the sensors on the tower. The thought tugs at him, pulling him away from sleep. He considers it for a few moments, then rolls away from the window.

Fuck the sensors.

He half heartedly yanks the blankets over himself and closes his eyes. He can deal with that later, when he’s trying to avoid facing May. Because she’s suddenly become the last person he ever wants to see again after this. After he failed her. 

Tony wakes up later, in the middle of the night, to the sound of soft weeping coming from the other side of the bed. It’s pulled him out of a dreamless and restless sleep, more akin to a very long blink than true sleep, though he wouldn’t know it by the exhaustion that weighs him down against the sheets. It takes him a few seconds to recognize the smell of Pepper’s perfume, and a few moments longer to push himself up. Exhaustion is making his movements sluggish and awkward. 

Pepper is sitting on her side of bed with her head in her hands, shaking with powerful, silent sobs. He sits up beside her and gently wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. She turns and buries her face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him desperately. She’s still wearing the sharp business suit from her meeting, and he can smell hints of her perfume clinging to her skin and hair. He feels as though he should say something to comfort her, but he can’t find the words.

In the end, he says nothing at all. He just holds her.

Eventually, she falls asleep in his arms, and he gently lowers them both onto the bed. He falls back into that dreamless sleep, and stays there.

When he wakes, he’s alone, in a bedroom made dim by the grey sky outside. He feels off kilter, briefly confused by memories of the previous day. It was unreal. It still _feels_ unreal--the morgue, the lab with Rhodey, the kitchen with Steve, and finally his bedroom with Pepper.

A note on his nightstand, written in Pepper’s graceful hand, brings reality crashing back upon him.

_With May down the hall, helping her with a few things; have FRI send me if you need me._

_-Pepper_

He reads the note, over and over, then sighs and sets it down. He won’t drag Pepper away from May. He needs time to process things alone, and frankly, May could use all the help that she can get. _He_ should be helping her. To make up for failing her.

“New appointment reminder directly from Ms. Potts, boss,” FRIDAY says.

“Got it,” Tony says, rubbing his eyes before looking up at the small holoscreen that appears over his nightstand.

_Tomorrow, 1pm. Funeral Planning w/May. FRIDAY will alert two hours beforehand._

He stares at the reminder in silence for a few moments before shutting off the screen and getting up. He showers, again, dresses in clean clothes, and takes the elevator in his suite down to his lab. 

*** * ***

Natasha finds him in the ruins of his lab a few hours later. She doesn’t bring a gimmick, a heartfelt look, or a therapy session. She brings herself, and simply sits beside him at the lab worktable. Richard Parker’s home videos are playing on one in screen in front of Tony. He doesn’t look up as she sits down, focused on a small array of screens beneath the one currently showing an image of Central Park, correcting and adjusting the resolution of the images, or cleaning the audio as he goes. Finally, the image clears itself of static, and the audio loses the tinny, scratchy background noise. He sits back with a sigh.

Natasha sits down beside him and gently takes his hand in her own. He squeezes her hand absently, reaching out to rewind the video and start it from the beginning.

"I found a bunch of stuff in that box you found. Family videos that Richard meant to take home, I think. A lot of it isn’t salvageable, but I did manage to get a few videos,” Tony says quietly. He nods to the screen. “This was their last family picnic."

On the screen, Peter’s mother, sweet and graceful, discusses her work with a friend while Ben and May flirt with each other over sandwiches and lemonade. Five year old Peter bounds over to his mother, holding an annoyed looking frog in his hands, wearing a muddy Captain America shirt, his hair and glasses slightly askew. "Mom! Did you know there are thirteen different species of--"

The frog breaks free of Peter’s hold and lands in the middle of Ben’s lemonade. May doubles over in laughter at Ben’s startled confusion when he grabs his glass and lifts it up. The video ends with Richard’s laughter as he shuts off the camera.

Nat smiles, watching the video play out. 

“I’m making copies for May,” Tony explains, skipping over the files he’s already cleaned up. They're too painful to watch more than once. Peter's too young, too bright, and it’s frankly depressing to see such a happy family enjoy their time together when in a few short years, almost all of them would be dead. 

A part of him still wants to see Peter alive and happy, however. He settles on a more recent file. Peter’s just as bright and dorkily charming, but it's a memory Tony has of him personally and it feels less intrusive and painful to watch. The screen shifts, and Pepper and Peter are standing in the kitchen, decorating a cake together, jostling each other’s elbows and giggling while May and Rhodey share a bottle of wine and offer pro tips and tricks that are anything but. 

“I figured she’d want them,” he says. “To look back on.”

“I think she’d like that,” Nat says quietly. She watches in silence for a long moment. “I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to meet him, Tony."

“So am I,” Tony replies, suddenly exhausted. He’s used to grief. He knows what to expect. It just doesn’t make it any easier. And it feels all the sharper with Peter, who should have outlived him. 

She squeezes his hand and watches the video files play out in front of them.

On the screen, Peter and May face off against Pepper and Tony in a game of ping pong. Rhodey serves as the referee, eating a sandwich while watching a football game on the other side of the room. All of his judgement calls favor Peter and May, regardless of the ball’s position, much to Tony’s exasperation. The game ends favoring the Parkers and May and Peter high five each other while Tony insists Peter cheated.

Peter high fives his aunt and laughs, and Tony realizes he’ll never hear that laugh in person again.

He spends the rest of the day in that lab, piecing together a series of videos for May (and for himself, if he’s being honest), eventually crawling out of the lab to head back to bed. His stomach growls, but food is the last thing on his mind at the moment. He’s mulling over a few final edits of the video as he walks down the quiet hall when he notices Peter’s door is open. Despite everything, seeing the door open sends a shard of hope through his mind before reality settles in. Peter always used to leave his door open when he visited. He walks towards it, pushing it open a bit further to look inside. 

May sits on the bed, looking around the room with a distant expression on her face as she looks over the various posters, projects, and books scattered around the room. Her hands are clasped together, resting in her lap, the knuckles white from pressure. She doesn’t acknowledge him when he walks inside and sits down beside her on the bed.

They sit together in silence for a moment, listening to the hum of the heating system, and distant, murmured conversations in the common room down the hall. Finally, May starts to speak, and Tony is in awe of how calm she is.

"I wanted to thank you,” she says, looking at the Legos stacked in the closet (also left open; Peter, it seems, did not believe in shutting his door).

Tony stares at her incredulously. “What?”

"You were his hero. Always. Ever since you saved his life at the Stark Expo. I'm glad he was able to share his life with you, even if it was only for a little bit. You don’t know how much happiness you brought him.” She sighs. “He didn’t have enough of it in his life, but you, Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey added some to his life. I’ll always appreciate that.”

Tony feels sick, glancing away from her. He failed her and she’s _thanking_ him. She reaches over to take one of his hands in her own, clasping it between both of hers, tracing the webshooter around his wrist.

“Thank you,” she says.

*** * ***

Funeral planning is one of the most horrifying, mundane, exhausting things anyone can do. Tony is in awe of the fact that May stays calm and collected through most of it; he was ready to burn the building down to the ground the moment he set foot inside.

When Tony's parents died, Obadiah had gallantly volunteered to handle all the details. Tony had agreed, more or less. He certainly hadn't been sober when Stane made his offer. Some part of himself feels guilty over that. Planning a funeral yourself is awful. The funeral parlor is eerily silent, the workers are respectful, but also sly salespeople looking to boost a grieving family's budget through subtle and not-so-subtle means. The whole day has a dreamy half real feel to it that Tony can’t fully recall.

He remembers the important parts, at least.

They settle on cremation. Peter's ashes will be inside a blue and red urn and placed into a coffin. He’ll be buried in a plot between his parents and Ben.

The coffin is chosen; humble, but elegant. Tony pays for it over May’s objections. The funeral home workers are a bit more friendly and soothing after he pays the bill, he notes with no small amount of bitterness.

“Take one day at a time, Mr. Stark,” the man at the funeral home says to him before he leaves, clasping his hand warmly. It takes every ounce of his willpower to keep from yanking his hand away.

“I know,” Tony answers, shaking his hand politely before leaving with May.

One day at a time. That’s the only way to handle something like this.

So he does.

*** * ***

Two days after planning the funeral, he pulls himself out of bed and into the shower. His hunger has returned and, more to the point, his caffeine withdrawal is starting to manifest as a truly horrific migraine. He staggers into the kitchen and blindly pours himself a cup, downing most of it before he realizes he’s not alone.

Sam’s in the kitchen, watching him. He nods to a stool. “Have a seat. I’ll get you something.”

Tony downs the rest of his coffee, then sits down at the counter. He looks up when Sam slides a glass in front of him and sticks a straw into what looks like a chocolate milkshake. He looks up at the man, frowning in confusion.

“It’s a breakfast smoothie,” Sam says. “Rhodey says you prefer those in the morning after a rough night. So, here, have a Cap Special.”

“Cap Special?” Tony asks, quirking a brow. The smoothie smells delicious, actually. He’s mildly impressed; Steve had mentioned (or, really, borderline gushed) Sam’s skills in the kitchen before. Apparently there’s more to that than Tony had originally thought.

“Well, a quarter of one, at least. You don’t need four glasses of this stuff,” Sam says, shrugging. At Tony’s curious look, he adds, “Steve crashes in the morning sometimes. Metabolism moves too fast when he’s asleep at night, especially if he’s been pulling those bullshit stunts he’s fond of."

Tony chuckles lowly. "The kid was the same way. I practically shoved half the kitchen into his backpack when he went home." He takes a sip of the smoothie, hums and leans back. "You might've missed your calling, Birdman. If this superhero thing falls apart, you might have a restaurant business in your future."

"I'll keep that in mind for a retirement plan,” Sam replies dryly.

Tony takes a deeper drink, finding himself a little more rejuvenated by the minute. “Also please find a better name for this than the ‘Cap Special.’”

Sam smirks, leaning against the counter with something close to a conspiratorial grin. “Hell no. He gets bent sideways from it whenever I say it. You know that look where he wants to tell you to stop but feels like it’d be rude to ask? I _live_ for that. You’re not robbing me of that joy, Stark.”

Tony pauses, considering. He knows all too well how entertaining it is to throw Steve off with a sideways jab, and Steve’s expression is always entertaining to the highest degree. He’s honestly missed having Steve around to tease and banter with these past two years. They’re not back at that point yet, and the jury’s still out on whether they will again, but Tony’s glad Steve has someone around to keep him on his toes.

“You know what, fair enough,” Tony says.

Sam nods, going back to cleaning up the mess he made while making breakfast. He turns to face the sink, handwashing a few knives with a towel tossed over his shoulder, and starts to speak.

“Listen, I know a few grief counselors. They specialize in this kind of thing. I’m not saying you _have_ to make an appointment, but I can leave their numbers with FRIDAY for you.”

Tony hesitates, wary to ask for help, to admit how much pain he’s in (even though it’s probably blatantly fucking obvious). After a few moments, he nods, realizes Sam can’t see him when he’s turned away like that, and clears his throat.

“Yeah. Leave ‘em with FRI. May might need them, and the kids in his decathlon team. Ned has me worried, for a start. And there’s Pepper and Happy...Rhodey, too.”

“I’ll text her. You know there’s no shame in getting help yourself, right?” Sam says frankly. “Survivor’s guilt hits everyone. You’re no exception. You don’t need to live with it.”

“Don’t I?”

Sam doesn’t answer that, perhaps sensing that Tony wouldn’t accept any answer he could have. Instead, he turns to face Tony, his expression patient and concerned.

Tony isn’t in the mood for the kind of support Sam is offering. He sighs, grabs the smoothie and heads back towards the hallway, hesitating before muttering a quiet _thank you_ before walking back to his room.

* * *

The days before the funeral blend together in a strange half-real way. He loses track of what the day is, but he can count down the hours to Peter’s funeral to the second. He finds himself at a loss as to what to do with himself. He cleans up his lab, rearranging things back to their semi-normal state. He doesn’t touch Peter’s projects; they’ll stay forever unfinished, as far as he’s concerned.

He also can’t bring himself to clean up Peter’s room. It’s a disaster area; clothes, notebooks, books, and toys flung all over the room making it a hazard to walk through. There isn’t any dust and the room smells clean; Pepper likely instructed the cleaning staff to leave everything as it is.

Sometimes, he just sits on Peter’s bed and takes it in. The clumsily scrawled notes, scattered tools, and half finished homework seem to have taken on a holistic air now. He’ll sit there for hours without realizing it, idly toying with the imperfect webshooter he’s taken to wearing on his left wrist. Lost in thought.

More than once an Avenger will walk down the hall and glance inside the open door on autopilot. They're all very quick to look away; Clint in particular seems to disappear for awhile when he sees Tony sitting in Peter's room. Though to be perfectly honest, Tony hasn’t kept track of any of the Avengers since the news. Between his shock, his isolation, and now this strange, muffling grief, he’s simply lost the mental capacity to bother with that.

Rhodey always comes in to sit with him. Pepper, too. One night, the three of them sit together as the evening sun strikes the windows into Peter’s room, bathing it in a golden, blood red light. Tony checks his watch.

“The funeral’s tomorrow.” _Sixteen hours exactly_ , but he doesn’t say that. Pepper’s already worried about his mental state. He doesn’t want to give her further concern.

Rhodey sighs. “We’d better get some rest, then.”

Tony knows full well when he says ‘we’ he means ‘you.’ Pepper gently squeezes Tony’s hand, briefly touching the webshooter there before standing. “A little bit of rest would be good.”

Tony stands up with her. “Right. Wouldn’t want to show up looking half dead from exhaustion.”

It’s a poor joke that lands flat. Tony leaves it be.

*** * ***

The funeral seems to be going well, or as well as these sorts of things can go. The Avengers mingle among the rest of the guests, dressed in black suits or black dresses, somber and withdrawn and thoughtful. There was a brief bit of liveliness when Principal Morita arrived and came face to face with Steve Rogers, both of them staring at the other. The two speak briefly, then part ways, pocketing their respective cell phones. Clint and Natasha stick close, speaking mostly to one another, respectful of their surroundings, but also distracted; Tony has half a mind to ask them what they’re up to before discarding the thought. 

Harrington stands by himself, hands in his pockets, looking at the coffin, dazed and weary. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, and he slumps when May steps beside him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. They start to speak to one another, and Tony sees Harrington swipe at his eyes.

Peter’s academic decathlon team stays close together in their own group, though one or two openly gawk at the Avengers. Flash Thompson, his hand and wrist covered in a red cast, spends more time staring at the casket than the others, and he looks like he's one second away from fainting. Tony notices one or two sideways looks aimed at Flash and can sense the trouble brewing from here.

He walks over to Flash, clearing his throat. "Hey, kid."

Flash starts, turning to face Tony. He's pale, and his eyes are distant. "Oh. Hey, Mr. Stark."

"How are you holding up?" Tony asks.

Flash lets out a small, ugly laugh. "Terrible. I haven't been sleeping well. I keep hearing him in my dreams, you know? Calling my name outside my window, clear as day." He rubs his eyes with his good hand. "We weren't even friends."

"Grief is weird," Tony replies. "Your dad isn't giving you trouble is he?"

"Nah, he went on vacation with the money he got from you," Flash says, rolling his eyes. "He'll be on some world tour thing until June, so there's a silver lining."

"Yeah, I hear child abandonment is all the rage these days."

"Trust me, I'm _not_ complaining."

"I never did either," Tony says, watching the crowd slowly trickle out of the room. He pats Flash's shoulder. "Take care of yourself. Call me if you need."

"I will. Thanks, Mr. Stark," Flash says. “I, um, I think I’m going to head out soon, though. This is a lot.”

“Don’t blame you,” Tony replies. “Be safe.”

Flash nods, turning to leave, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket as he goes. There’s a few murmurs from the decathlon team as he pushes through the doors, passing by one of the workers from the funeral home. Tony fades back into the background, thoughtful.

“He isn’t dead,” MJ says suddenly.

That brings the room to a stop. Harrington and May turn towards MJ, and her teammates go slightly wide-eyed, looking at one another nervously. Grief is new for most of them.

May’s expression softens, and she reaches out to gently touch MJ’s shoulder. “MJ, yes, he is. Tony and I saw...” She stumbles over her words, takes in a deep breath, and tries again. “We identified him with the police. He’s gone.”

“No, he isn’t,” MJ insists, frowning at May. Her voice starts to lose the even, confident tone that Tony’s heard every time they meet. “I heard him last night. Outside my window. I was half asleep, but it was _him._ He was asking for help--”

“Honey,” May murmurs, pulling Michelle into a gentle, comforting hug. MJ stiffens, and then slumps into the hug, clinging to May. It suddenly strikes Tony how _young_ MJ is, and how her grief makes her seem younger still. “It’s okay. I’ve had that dream, too. It’s just grief.”

“It sounded so real,” MJ mumbles, unsure, hugging May tighter. 

Tony quietly slips out of the room, leaving the two of them behind. He can’t stand to see this. It’s too gentle, too private for him to stand there and gawk at. He starts down the hall, walking towards the back of the funeral home, pushing through the back door and stepping outside. The air is cold and damp, and it’s just enough of a shock to his system that he loses a bit of the tightness in his chest. He leans against the door, letting out a breath while rubbing his eyes. Of course they're all having dreams about him. Tony still has dreams about his parents, after all.

It is, however, a bit strange that they're all having the _same_ dream. That's odd.

A quiet sob to his right snaps him out of his thoughts and he turns to find Ned sitting on the back step of the building. Tony hesitates, and then sits down next to the kid, pulling out a few tissues from his pocket and silently offering them to Ned.

Ned takes them and just holds them.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Ned whispers.

“Yeah. Don’t mention it,” he answers. He looks at Ned from the corner of his eye. “You were the one who broke into my suit, weren’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Ned says, hunching his shoulders.

“You did good work. I didn’t even realize there was an exploit there,” Tony says. “If you ever need anything, you let me know. All right? Just say the word. I know Peter gave you my number. I'm a phone call away."

Ned nods, fidgeting with the tissues. He’s quiet for a moment and then says very softly, “I need my friend back. I keep having dreams he’s outside the apartment, looking for me.”

Tony doesn’t have much he can say to that. He does mentally tally it up. Four people have had that same dream. He would put even odds that the rest of the team has had the same dream. It’s strange how a simple suggestion can penetrate the mind. “Yeah. I know.”

Ned ducks his head down. “I should’ve walked him home.”

Tony shakes his head. “Stop right there, kid. You couldn’t have known. And whatever happened to him--whoever hurt him--would have done the same to you. That’s the last thing he would’ve wanted, and you know it.”

“I could’ve done _something_ ,” Ned says, but doesn’t argue further. He falls silent, fidgeting with the tissues Tony handed him.

_You and me both, kid,_ Tony thinks, clapping a hand on Ned’s shoulder. The boy leans into his hand for a moment, then stands up and wipes his eyes. He silently walks back inside the funeral home, leaving Tony alone.

Tony makes a note to suggest a grief counselor to Ned’s mother, standing up with a small wince. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at the bright blue sky above; the day is bright, unseasonably warm. The last gasp of summer before autumn fully takes hold. He isn’t sure if that’s better or worse than the miserably chill days they’ve had recently.

The door behind him opens and Peppers voice calls out. “They’re taking him to the cemetery now.”

He’s been dreading this part. This final moment where he’ll be in a room with Peter. He nods, turning back to her and walking towards the door. 

Drawing it out won’t do him any favors. Peter deserves his rest.

*** * ***

The crowd at the cemetery is significantly smaller. Only Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, the Avengers, and Ned and MJ. May, of course. She has no other family. Tony tries not to think about that beyond a simple, private promise to make sure she isn’t alone after this. Peter would have wanted that much, he thinks.

The sun shines down on the cemetery, and a pleasant wind cuts across it. Tony stands off to the side of May, staring at the open hole the casket will be lowered into soon.

Peter's headstone is elegant and simple, made to match the humble stones of Peter’s parents and his uncle Ben. His parents have a shared plot, as does Ben. May’s name and date of birth are already etched into the stone beneath Ben’s name, with a blank slot for her date of death. It’s jarring for Tony to see, and he’s not sure how May can stand to see such a stark reminder of where she’ll go at the end of her life. Of where the rest of her family currently lies.

The ceremony--what little of it there is--passes almost without comment or input. May presses a palm against Peter's coffin for a moment, grief stricken and exhausted. Sam and Happy stand near her, silent and supportive.

Tony has never seen her look so tired. She stands back, swaying on her feet for a moment before catching her balance against Sam's arm. She catches his eye, straightens, and walks towards him. Sam and Happy flank her.

May stops in front of him, and stares into his eyes. There’s a fire there, as bright and fierce as Peter’s had been the first day they met and he explained _why_ he became Spiderman. There's no doubt at all where Peter got his sense of justice.

“I want you to find who did this to Peter,” May says quietly. “ _Make sure they don't_ _hurt anyone else._ No one deserves this. That’s the only thing I will ever ask of you again.”

Tony nods. “I promise.” _I owe you a debt so large that I'll never be able to repay it, May Parker._

She nods silently, the anger draining from her all at once as she again rests a hand on Sam's arm. "I think I should go now. It's been a long day. Happy, can you take me home?"

"You don't want to stay at the Tower?" Happy asks. When she shakes her head he nods. "Okay, let's get you home."

Sam walks with them over to the car, helping May inside before standing back to let Happy drive off. 

One by one the Avengers contemplate the coffin. Most of them simply bow their heads respectfully. Rhodey says something quietly to the coffin, palm pressed against the polished wood. It almost sounds like a promise, but Tony can't make out the words. Pepper speaks low and soothing.

Tony is the last to approach. The others give him space. When he touches the coffin, he says the only thing that comes to mind.

"I'm sorry I failed you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one scene I wrote this entire fic for is in this one.

Time goes back to that half real state after the funeral. He remembers the drive back to the tower. He thinks he slept. Maybe ate some food when Rhodey appeared in his room with one of Sam's smoothies. He definitely showered at Pepper’s passing comment and worried look. Other than that, he can’t recall exactly what he did in the days following the funeral. This is a hole in his memory that he suspects he’ll never recover, just like the strange, hazy period following his parents’ death.

His shock starts to disappear piece by piece, replaced by a restless agitation. Three days after the funeral, he leaves his bedroom suite and paces the common room with this new agitation that seems to be a constant state of being for him. The room is dim; autumn reclaimed the sky not long after Peter’s funeral, and flurries drift past the windows, falling from thick, gray clouds flowing past the tower. No one else is around him at the moment, but he can see Natasha’s door open in the hallway and he can hear the elevator behind him drift to one of the floors below.

Finally, he pulls out his phone. "Call Detective Brannigan."

The phone rings twice before the call is answered. "Brannigan."

"I need the details on this serial killer you've been chasing. Send them to me as soon as you can. Preferably now.”

Brannigan is quiet for a moment. “I can’t do that. This isn’t Avengers business, Mr. Stark. This is a run of the mill serial killer and that’s squarely under our jurisdiction. You aren’t a member of law enforcement.”

Tony has a hard time swallowing the words ‘run of the mill serial killer’ when one of the victims is _Peter Parker._

“Another headless body showed up last night near Queensboro bridge. If you give me everything you have, I’ll make sure it’s the last body that shows up,” Tony retorts. “If you don’t, then the next death and every single one after that is on you. Are you sure you want that riding on your conscience?”

Brannigan, damn her, keeps calm. "My conscience is my business, Mr. Stark. And this case belongs squarely to the NYPD."

Tony growls, struggling and failing to counter her. He knows this isn't Avengers business, but so the fuck what? "Listen, I promised I would--"

"This isn't your job," she repeats. "Don't bother hacking into the system again. The IT guys realized someone was in the network and moved everything to a local network not connected to anything outside of the department."

Well, shit. Tony stops at that. He would have to be inside the precinct to get access to that network. That's not an impossible task but--

“Goodbye, Mr. Stark," the detective says politely before hanging up the phone.

*** * ***

Tony all but abandons his main lab. He instead sets up shop in one of the less comfortable ones. Peter’s backpack is in the old one, and he’s not ready to look at it yet. It’s more than the mess he’s left behind; it’s the reminders of Peter around the lab. The notes on his lab table, the coffee stain from the one and _only_ time Tony let him drink coffee in the lab, the internship photo where they posed together. Small details, little things Tony slowly made room for in his most sacred place, and now it feels too empty. Too quiet, too still. Those little reminders seem much larger and, somehow, accusatory now.

So he moves. The top ten floors of the tower had been R&D at one point, so it doesn’t take much to organize. In fact, he does most of the ordering and furniture rearrangement himself. Anything to keep his mind and hands occupied. It works, to a certain extent. Not very effectively, of course, but it lets him go back to some shattered version of what he’d been before.

At least, he likes to think so.

He buries himself in his work for Stark Industries. The nanobots are forgotten, set aside to be picked up again at some point in the future, if at all. Pepper’s email is flooded with patents, ideas, adjustments and upgrades to their best selling products to be passed on to the R&D team at a reasonable hour. 

He's on his third cup of coffee when Clint strolls into his lab, calm as you please, hands in his pockets. Tony’s thrown off his rhythm so much by the man’s sudden appearance that he has no choice but to stare at him. No one has come down to the lab to see him in days.

“I need your help with something," Clint says.

“What is it?” Tony asks. 

“I dropped my phone this morning. Think you can fix it?” He holds out the phone, the screen and case cracked so severely that Tony's surprised the thing is still in one piece.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some top secret agent? How the hell do you just drop a phone?”

“Look, if you ask me to shoot the bluetooth headset off of someone’s ear from two miles away, I’m your guy. That doesn’t mean I don’t drop my phone every now and then.”

“Nat never drops her phone," Tony points out.

“Nat is a statistical outlier. Are you gonna help me or what?”

Tony holds his hand out and takes the phone, looking it over. He shrugs. "Fine."

It actually takes him the rest of the day to fix it. Tony practically has to rebuild it. He's in awe of how broken it is and commits to building a phone similar in design to Peter's--reinforced to ridiculousness. Clint hangs around during the whole process, chatting with him, snarking when Tony forgoes meals, and otherwise being a goddamn nuisance. 

When Tony hands him the rebuilt phone, Clint grins and thanks him.

Afterward, over the course of a few days, Clint brings him other things to fix. Laptops for his kids, iPads (“What, is a Starkpad too good for you?” “No one likes rip offs, Tony.”), a Microsoft Zune (“Barton, what the hell.”) and, his latest broken item: his minivan.

His very ugly minivan.

Tony considers the vehicle sitting in the middle of his lab, hands in his pockets as he stares at it. After a few moments, he speaks.

“I’m burning this thing, Barton. This is a crime against god and nature.”

“It’s a Chrysler.”

“I said what I said.”

“Normally this model doesn’t have a tree branch impaling it. Just so you know.”

And there is, indeed, a giant tree impaling the humble minivan from the bottom. Tony has so many questions that he doesn’t even know where to begin. Instead, he turns to stare at Clint, speechless.

“Coop’s got his learner's permit,” Clint adds helpfully.

“FRIDAY, remind me to talk to President Ellis so I can make it illegal for Cooper Barton to even _look_ at a car.”

“On it, boss.”

“Hey, that’s my retirement driver. You can’t do that.”

“I’ll build you a self driving car."

“Absolutely not. FRIDAY still wakes me up with the Lord of the Rings soundtrack and that stupid ‘They’re Taking The Hobbits To Isengard’ song you found on the internet.”

Tony stops and smirks. Clint actually seems to take that as a triumph. Tony shakes his head. 

"Grab a wrench and help me with this," he says.

They work on the van together. Clint’s not an engineer, but he’s clever and knows how to use a wrench, and an old van like this requires more mechanical knowledge than IT tech, unlike the newer models. Tony still plays his music, but he has Friday skip the songs marked as Peter’s favorites; he’s not ready to hear those yet. He’s not sure he ever will be.

They fall into rhythm, working to the sound of pounding rock music and whirring tools. They’re half finished with the repair job when Tony breaks the silence. FRIDAY lowers the volume when he starts to speak.

“I let Pete borrow one of my cars for his driver’s test,” Tony says suddenly. He’s not sure why he’s sharing this. Maybe because he thinks Clint will understand.

Clint glances up from his work, gauging Tony’s reaction. “How’d it go?”

“Horrible. The kid passed, and I’ve seriously questioned the judgement of New York’s DMV ever since. Happy won’t even entertain the thought of letting the kid drive him, and after one very enlightening and terrifying afternoon drive around the compound, I have to agree with him. I swear I gained more grey hair in that one afternoon than I have my entire life.”

Clint smirks. “Cooper managed to park halfway inside my shed three times. There were no other buildings around. If he wasn’t so apologetic and terrified, I would’ve thought he did it on purpose the last time. It was kind of impressive.”

“How the hell did he manage this?” Tony motions towards the branch, now cut into pieces. A better question would be _how the hell did you even get this inside my lab_ but there are some mysteries even Tony doesn’t want to find the answer to.

Clint gives him a helpless, baffled look and shrug. “I dunno, man. Kids.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah. Kids.” He focuses on the engine in front of him and finally asks the question that’s been lingering in the back of his mind for days now. “Why are you doing this?”

_This_ meaning the little projects and excuses to visit. Tony’s not a fool. He can tell when someone is babysitting him. It’s a testament to how defeated he feels that he hasn’t chased Barton off yet. That and the suspicion he has that Clint won’t allow himself to be avoided or locked out. The man is just as stubborn as Steve in some ways, and annoying in an entirely different way.

Clint watches him for a moment, and when he speaks, it’s with a simple honesty that Tony’s always respected from him. Clint may be one of the best secret agents to exist on the planet, but he's always kept a frank and honest tone with his allies.

“You’re living my worst nightmare. If our positions were reversed, I’d be a complete psychopath. I’d burn down the goddamn world. I want to make sure you don’t turn into that.”

Tony, who hasn't quite set aside the instinct to do exactly that yet, stares at him. "You don't even like me."

"Not true. I think you're an asshole."

"Exactly."

“There’s a difference.” Clint shrugs. "Everyone has one asshole friend."

Tony scoffs, not sure if he believes Clint or not, then turns back to the engine he was working on moments before.

They get back to work, and a bit of the tension still lingering between them disappears. 

It takes them three days to finish the van, and another two days for Clint to convince Tony to leave the nitrous out of the engine. The offer to install an autopilot AI is soundly dismissed after another day of pestering.

Clint does, however, take up Tony’s offer to build Lila something to practice her targeting with. It becomes their next project. A new tractor engine follows. Better, smarter solar panels that Clint can install on his barn roof. Little projects, things that Tony can fix in an afternoon. But they keep him focused on something other than what he’s lost. And for that, he’s eternally thankful for Clint. 

*** * ***

A new normal starts to form, albeit slowly and tentatively. Tony resumes the Accords talks; it’s been weeks, and what Steve said earlier still rings true: the Avengers have a limited window with which to get a better version of the Accords out before another version of Ross appears. It’s going much more smoothly now. There’s less hard feelings, less bitterness in the wake of Peter’s death. Tony had once thought that Peter could help reunite the team. He’d never imagined it would be like this. The only tension that appears happens during a meeting when Steve brings up the Winter Soldier.

“He still needs to sign. Wanda’s down with pneumonia or she would’ve been here a few days ago. Vision, uh, doesn’t seem eager to leave her. Scott sent his signed copy last week. That leaves Bucky.”

Tony silently raises an eyebrow at him.

Steve sighs, shoulders hunched. He rubs the back of his neck--one of his ‘I’m nervous, and not sure how to approach this’ tells. “He needs to sign them, at least the one rewritten where he’s restricted to civilian life. I can arrange for someone to send them out to him in Wakanda--”

“He can sign here,” Tony says tonelessly.

Steve looks up at him, shocked. 

Tony scoffs. “Don’t give me that look. He can come here and sign. Everyone else is--except for Wanda and Vision." And the less he contemplates that mess, the better he’ll feel. He waves a hand. “He can stay at the Compound for all I care. It’s not like I’m leaving the city much these days.”

Which is true. He doesn’t want to leave the city. Not while May still lives here. He made a silent promise to Peter’s memory, and he plans to keep it. 

Steve nods, clearing his throat. “I’ll call him and let him know.”

He doesn’t quite lose that shocked expression as he stands, and he pauses near the doorway, glancing at Tony over his shoulder. He looks relieved and somehow guilty all at once. 

“Thank you,” he says.

Tony just nods, staring straight ahead. Steve hesitates at the doorway for a few moments before quietly stepping outside. Tony sighs. 

The Avengers are a team again. Just like he wanted.

It’s not as much of a victory as he’d hoped.

*** * ***

Days pass. Tony hasn’t bothered to keep count. The flurries turn to snow then back to rain. The clouds never quite leave New York City. The Tower feels chill and still despite FRIDAY adjusting the temperature to compensate for the change in seasons. He visits Peter’s room less and less; he finds comfort there, but it’s becoming harder and harder to leave the room. He found a notebook in Peter’s desk, with designs for a new set of webshooters inside one day, and lost most of a day to reviewing the sketches and measurements. He left feeling drained and hollow; it isn’t fair that the world lost him so soon.

He makes a point to use the elevator in his suite to go to a different floor before heading to the common room for breakfast after that. It’s better to avoid the temptation altogether.4ui

The Winter Soldier makes a brief appearance in the tower to sign the new Accords one day. Tony runs into him in the hallway, and both men freeze. It’s a rare moment where Tony is well and truly alone, and it seems the Winter Soldier is enjoying that same luxury.

Except Tony’s not entirely sure he can keep calling the man in front of him by that name. There’s very little of the brutal fighter and murderer he’d seen in Germany in this man. For one, he walks taller, stands straighter, carrying himself in a casually dangerous way not at all unlike Steve. His clothes are clean, modern, and relatively simple--black slacks, a button down shirt with one sleeve clipped to the shoulder due to his missing arm, and shoes polished to a mirror shine. And then there’s his eyes; there’s no vicious spark in them anymore, no furious madness; just an air of sadness and regret. 

It strikes Tony that he’s not standing across from the Winter Soldier. He’s standing near the ruins of James Barnes, former soldier, war hero, and victim of HYDRA. Tony sees very little of the man who murdered his parents in Bucky, and though there’s still a general sense of unease and distrust, he finds it difficult to bring up anything close to that first flash of fury he felt towards him. At least, not in the wake of Peter’s death. His life has hit a turning point, just as it did when his parents died. There’s before Peter’s death and after, and everything before it has taken a strange, distant quality.

He’s still tense around the man, however. Tony clears his throat, clasps his hands in front of himself so Bucky can see he doesn’t have any weapons and nods to him. “You look a little lost, pal.”

Bucky hesitates before nodding. “I’m trying to find Steve’s room.”

Tony scoffs. Of course he is. He steps to the side and points down the hall. “Second door on the left. It has his shield on it. You can’t miss it. Dinner’s at six, usually, but grab what you need from the fridge. Gym’s in the basement. Just have FRI set up one of Cap’s exercise routines for you if you go down there.”

“Right. Thanks.” Bucky watches him for a moment, frowning, then walks past him. He glances over his shoulder at Tony before disappearing down the hall.

Tony’s phone buzzes, and a small alert appears across the lock screen. A message from FRIDAY.

_I’ve got my eye on him, boss,_ it says.

Tony forgets how intelligent his AI can be at times. There’s no doubt in his mind that FRIDAY’s been tracking him closely these past few days. Marking his sleep, his diet, probably counting his heartbeats. She’s not emotionally intelligent in the way humans are, but she’s been picking up emotional queues and reactions that go beyond the usual binary responses most AI possess. He taps out a quick response.

_Thanks._

_Go get dinner,_ FRIDAY responds.

He scoffs, resuming his walk towards the common room.

*** * ***

Despite all of his best efforts to get more information from the NYPD, the so-called Demon of Queens, Peter’s murderer, is left to the police. Serial killers are their domain, after all, and New York certainly has a colorful history when it comes to criminals of that type, and the police most certainly do _not_ need or want the Avengers to get involved. It's bad enough that they have to hand jurisdiction of the case over to the feds; it feels like a failure.

Tony knows this much because he’s still breaking into the NYPD as a matter of habit, like he’s doing now in the common room, sitting at the kitchen island beside Natasha while Sam dozes on the couch. Rhodey is nearby, pouring himself a cup of tea; he leaves a steaming mug on the counter beside Tony.

She glances over Tony’s shoulder as he works, blatantly leaning to one side to get a clearer look. He doesn’t bother trying to hide what he’s doing; if Natasha wants information, she’ll find it. And besides, her company isn’t entirely unasked for.

“I’m surprised you haven’t broken into the precinct and cloned the detective’s harddrive,” she remarks.

“It’s on the to-do list. It’s a little difficult when you’ve been banned by the police, however, which is a new low I didn’t think was possible to achieve,” Tony replies, distracted. Brannigan’s email has been lit up like a Christmas tree recently, and he wants to know why. FRIDAY is still working on downloading copies to his servers. “I don’t suppose you’re volunteering to take a field trip?”

“Not me,” she says idly. “I have a project I’m working on. Clint’s probably going to do it, assuming he hasn’t already.”

Tony stops and looks at her, frowning. “Why would he--”

“Boss, there’s something you should see,” FRIDAY says, cutting him off. The TV clicks on and rapidly switches channels to one of the local news stations. The volume rises, and the sound of it stirs Sam awake, making the man sit up groggily and rub the back of his head.

"--we would like to remind viewers that the images you are about to see are extremely graphic in nature,” a woman says, frowning at the camera severely.

The anchors fall silent and the image switches to a much clearer, though still far from sharp, security recording. The image focuses on an alley, with a block timestamp dating back to last week blinking in the bottom right corner, and the words _Mercy Hospital Cancer Treatment Center_ beneath them.

A twitchy man dressed in scrubs roughly shoves a door heavy open and steps outside with a small box tucked under one arm. He can’t be any older than twenty three, and looks like a weasel dipped in fry grease; all sharp glances and furtive movements as he tucks the box into his coat, zips it up, and tries to push the door shut again. Suddenly, he freezes in place and looks over his shoulder, tilting his head as if listening for something. He stays like that for a moment before shrugging and turning back to the door, struggling with the lock.

Behind him, something as tall and wide as the Hulk with glowing white eyes and gleaming teeth separates itself from the shadows. It stalks towards the man, silent despite its size, until it stands mere inches from the man’s back. And then it waits, unmoving, watching the man with a stillness that’s eerie beyond measure.

The man finally clicks the door closed and turns around. And then he screams as the thing grabs him and raises him off the ground. The scream is silent, but the man’s panic is clear for all to see as he struggles in the monster’s grip. The screen freezes just as the monster draws back its jaws and raises a clawed hand to grip the man’s hair.

A rather shaky voice starts to speak over the image. One of the news anchors. “Police believe that this is the creature responsible for the recent span of deaths across the city. They’re asking all citizens to remain indoors at night and--wait, no, don’t hit that button--”

The video starts once more. The monster grips the man, lifting him up so that his head rests close to its needle teeth and slathering tongue. The man’s struggles become even more panicked; he twists and turns, kicking his legs furiously. The monster ignores this, slowly lowering its face towards the man’s.

And then it _bites._

One of the anchors gasps. The monster casually tosses what’s left of the man’s body aside and raises an arm the same way Peter does when he’s about to set loose a web. Instead, a tentacle erupts from the monster’s wrist, attaching to some unseen corner of a building before hauling itself back into the air with a bloody grin. The movement is heavier and less agile than Peter, but no less graceful. It moves _fast_ , almost too quick for the camera to catch it.

The whole thing takes less than five seconds.

“Oh, Christ,” Sam says quietly, his voice thick. 

The camera switches back to the anchors who look vaguely shocked and sickened. The male anchor in particular looks pale and more than a little green when he whispers ‘ _Are we allowed to show that?’_ to his co host who seems to realize they’re back on camera at that precise moment. She plasters on a media ready smile that seems to match the slightly manic ‘one-sneeze-away-from-a-panic-attack’ customer service look that Tony’s seen among cafe workers around Christmas time.

"Authorities are still trying to identify the man in the video, but are having some difficulty due to the state of his body,” she says, her voice shaking only for a moment until she hits her stride again. An image of Peter’s school picture appears on the screen and she continues. “In related news, police have ended their search for Midtown Tech student and Stark Industries intern Peter Parker, who they now believe to be one of the first victims of the Queens Demon. Peter was last seen passing by an area where police later found three dismembered bodies belonging to Life Foundation employees."

As if to drive the point home, the screen switches to a map. A map focusing on an alleyway between a deli and long abandoned warehouse. One that Tony can, and always will, see when he closes his eyes and his thoughts turn to Peter. He clenches his fist, his vision filling with red. The screen switches back to the anchor.

"A funeral for friends and family has already taken place, and May Parker and Tony Stark wish to extend their thanks towards all of those who helped with the search.”

“What a time for Spider-Man to go missing,” her colleague says, shaking his head. A brief moment passes and the camera angle shifts as the man turns in his chair. His voice loses the somber tone immediately as he moves on to the next story. “In other news, there are rumors circulating online that claim a Wakandan Princess has discovered a potential vaccine for cancer--”

Tony shuts off the TV and then promptly fastballs his mug of tea into the wall. It shatters on impact, leaving a black stain against the wall. The Demon isn't just some run of the mill loser with a lust for murder. It's a literal _monster_ stalking the people of New York City and eating them alive. The fact that Peter went missing when it first appeared isn't lost on Tony. _This_ is the thing that killed Peter Parker. Tony is sure of it. What else could it be? Three dead bodies found near where his own body was found--shit, the kid must’ve heard it attacking them and went to help. Because he couldn’t do anything less.

“FRIDAY, get Detective Brannigan on the phone. I don’t care if she’s asleep at home, ring until she answers--”

“Incoming call from Detective Brannigan,” FRIDAY says. “Patching her through.”

“Mr. Stark,” Brannigan says, calm and collected as always. “I hope you have time to chat.”

Tony stutters to a stop, momentarily thrown, then starts again. “The Demon case. I want everything you have. This is officially above your paygrade, and if you want the killing to stop, you need to hand over the case to the Avengers. You’re not qualified to handle whatever the hell is out there, and you know it. You’re smart.”

“No argument here,” she says. “I’ve been talking myself blue in the face with the captain over it. And it seems one of your friends has already volunteered to pick up the information we have. I’m currently holding him at gunpoint in my office.”

“Hi, Tony,” Clint says distantly over the phone.

Tony sighs, and puts the phone on speaker. “Barton, did you seriously get busted by the cops?”

“In my defense, this cop should’ve worked with SHIELD,” Clint calls back.

“They tried to recruit me in college. Not my speed,” Brannigan replies. “Mr. Stark, I want you to know that this sets a dangerous precedent, legally speaking. A lot of people are going to be rightfully nervous that there are superheroes hunting down a monster in New York City. You should be careful.”

“I promised May that I’d make sure no one else suffers a loss the way she has. I intend to keep it. If that means I have to take this thing down personally, then I will,” Tony promises. He pauses, then scoffs. “Besides, I don’t think there’s a way for us to arrest a tentacle swinging monster anyway. The Raft’s been decommissioned.”

“Then take it out and try to find out where the hell it came from. I’d rather not try to give this thing its Miranda Rights. The sooner you get this thing off the streets, the better we’ll all be,” Brannigan replies. “I’ve given your friend everything I have. 

Clint cuts in, right around the same time a small holoscreen appears over the kitchen island with a map of the city. “I’m sending FRIDAY everything now, Tony. The police have a few hotspots around the city they think it's hiding in. We’d have better luck splitting up and scouting each one, then calling in for backup if we find the nest.”

Tony glances at Nat who gives him a slight nod. “Sounds like a plan. We’ve got the locations. Are you suited up?”

“Always,” Clint says.

“Get outside and wait for your ride, then,” Tony says. “Thank you for not shooting him, detective.”

“I figured I owed him one after he saved my daughter in the Battle of New York. Good luck, Mr. Stark. Stay safe.”

“You too,” Tony says, hanging up the phone. He looks at the other Avengers lounging in the room with him. The rage is still burning, but it’s not overpowering. Some part of him knows that whatever vengeance he’s looking for will ring hollow once it’s achieved. Killing this monster won’t bring Peter back, but it will even the score. At the very least, Tony can keep his promise to May, and make sure no one else dies.

Sam is fully awake now and slowly stands up, stretching his arms and shoulders as he does so; his usual routine before putting on the wing pack. Natasha is already moving, giving Tony a brief nod before snatching up the keys to quinjet from the keybowl on the counter. 

“I’ll grab Cap and get the jet ready,” she says.

Sam cracks his neck, winces, and sighs. “I’ll get the meds and meet you guys on the roof. That thing looks nasty.”

“You guys are coming?” Tony asks. He’d expected Clint; whatever friendship that’s built between them is holding strong. Rhodey, definitely. He’s still caught off guard by Sam volunteering to help.

“Hell yeah we are,” Rhodey says, still drinking his tea while texting FRIDAY on his phone. Tony can see Rhodey’s suit shoot past the window, heading towards the roof. “You’re not about to chase this thing down by yourself, Tony.”

Tony’s relieved on some level; that thing looks downright _mean_. A part of him recognizes that he’s probably too involved, too emotionally close to this to do it properly. He wants to hurt that thing. He wants to kill it, but he wants to make sure it suffers first, for what it did to Peter. Rhodey will help him keep his head on straight; he’s good at that. 

At the very least, he’ll snap Tony out of it if he loses himself.

“Right. Let’s get to the roof and hunt this thing down.”

*** * ***

They’re in the air within minutes. Tony and Rhodey are in their suits in the quinjet, looking over the map Clint uploaded to FRIDAY, with the rest of the Avengers looking over the map. 

“The police have found five likely spots where the creature is hiding,” Clint says. He points at a few. “Water and former Life Foundation buildings seem to be the only common factors. Whatever this thing is, it prefers Life Foundation warehouses near the water. That limits our search, thank god, but that still leaves us with five empty warehouses near the Hudson to check.”

“Tony, Rhodes, you two can move around the city quicker than the rest of us. I want you two to scout ahead for the three furthest warehouses,” Steve says, pointing first at the three furthest locations and then to the other two clustered together on the map, his voice casual and confident. “These two are close enough together that we can land the jet and clear them by foot. If anyone sees anything out of place or unusual, you call it in and then you _wait._ ”

That last point is said directly to Tony, who only raises an eyebrow. “No promises. If it comes out swinging, I’m swinging back. Hard.”

“At least give us a call and let us know,” Steve says.

“The police reports mention ‘black slime’ found at every crime scene,” Natasha says, cutting off Tony’s reply before he can escalate things. She’s scanning through one of said reports on a holoscreen in front of her. “They’re not sure what it is. Only that it ‘shrinks’ and smells ‘like hell’ after a few hours.”

“Gross,” Clint mutters.

Tony thinks back to the backpack Natasha and Clint found. The black streaks, the strong smell, Peter’s ruined phone--god, it was all right there. Right in front of him this entire time. If he’d taken just five minutes to test that ‘unknown organic material’ FRIDAY had mentioned, he would’ve figured this out much sooner. Not that it would change anything. Peter died long before Tony started looking for him. 

If only he’d gone out the moment May called him.

“We’re at your stop, Tony, Rhodes,” Sam calls back from the cockpit. The ramp starts to drop open, and wind cuts through the back of the jet, the roar of it nearly drowning out Sam’s words. 

Steve raises a hand to click on his radio, speaking into the mic as Tony and Rhodey’s helmets click into place. “We’ll start at the opposite end of the map and work our way towards you. Report back immediately if you find anything.”

“You’ll be the first call I make,” Tony says, taking a few steps away from the group gathered around the map before firing off his repulsors and flying out of the open ramp to the city below. 

Rhodey isn’t far behind him, flying back and to his right in fighter position. Daylight is fading behind a wall of clouds and rain pelts the outside out of their suits as they angle down towards a decrepit row of warehouses below. Above them, the quinjet ramp closes, and it speeds off into the fading sunlight, banking off to the left as Sam takes it towards its next destination.

Tony arcs down towards the nearest warehouse, pulling up and hovering above ground. The parking lot is webbed with cracks and brown grass growing between them, empty save for some long abandoned cars scattered across it and left to rust. Faded signs directing truckers to chock their tires near the loading docks rattle in the wind and rain. No one has been in this place in a long time, judging by how isolated it is, which means it’s a perfect place for a monster to hide.

“Goddamn, this is creepy,” Rhodey says, hovering beside him. “There’s nothing here.”

“Looks like it’s been abandoned for awhile,” Tony agrees. He sets FRIDAY into a scan and hits his first brick wall--literally. His scan can’t penetrate the inside of the nearest warehouse. He’ll have to go inside.

“No, there’s _nothing here,_ ” Rhodey says. “Pigeons are everywhere in New York City. So are rats. How many of those do you see around here?”

Tony stops, takes a moment to adjust his scans, and realizes Rhodey’s right. A place like this should be full of rats at the very least. Maybe a stray cat slinking along in the shadows, hunting the mice and rats. Birds should be all over this place; pigeons, seagulls, _something_ should be here. But there’s nothing. It’s silent and still at this warehouse in a way that’s completely unnatural for New York City. No bird calls, no scurrying rats, just the wind and fading rain. And it’s starting to set off warning bells in Tony’s mind.

“This is just like the alley we searched when Peter first went missing,” Rhodey continues, engaging his suit’s weapons. One of smaller rocket launchers flicks into place above his right shoulder as he looks around. “I think it might be close. Or it was just here.”

_Or it's watching us,_ Tony thinks. He straightens his back. “We’ve got two buildings to check, the warehouse and trucking office. I’ll take the warehouse. Think you can handle the trucking office?”

“I’ll clear it and find you,” Rhodey says. He engages his thrusters and flies for the smaller building, leaving Tony alone.

Tony almost calls him back, seized by some unseen sense that splitting apart is a _bad_ idea, but he shrugs it off. The sooner they clear this place, the sooner they can move on. And Tony’s eager to find this thing as soon as possible. He flies towards the warehouse, opening the door and stepping inside, letting FRIDAY adjust to the low light inside the building. She restarts the scan a moment later, and Tony lifts himself off the ground, gently floating along as FRIDAY does her thing. 

There are crates here. Piles and piles of wooden crates left to rot inside the warehouse, some stacked precariously, others tumbled over onto the slick concrete floor. This place is rat heaven, but the scans have hit to hit a single living thing inside the building. 

“Found something, boss,” FRIDAY says, lighting up a portion of the ceiling on his HUD. “No sign of anything alive, but I think I found a nest.”

Tony flies up to the roof and flicks on his lights. Night vision is useful, but not clear enough to see details in the dark. Sometimes, nothing beats a good old flashlight. The light illuminates half of the warehouse, focusing on the wall.

It’s a big ball of...well, gunk. Slime. Goo. _Something._ Honestly, Tony isn’t sure. Black, organic material clings to the wall and ceiling the way a spider’s egg sac would hang from a web, with thick branches of it digging into the brick wall like tree roots. Smaller tendrils branch out from the bulk of material, mostly clinging to the wall, but a few hang limply in the air.

There’s a hole leading inside. Tony quickly flashes his light across it and then hesitates for a moment before very carefully peering inside. His imagination immediately goes into overdrive, and he has to clench his jaw. If he finds that thing sitting inside, watching him--

It’s empty.

He starts to let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding when his comms light up.

“ _It’s here! It’s here--I need--_ ” Rhodey shouts. He’s cut off by static, and a distant, rumbling _crash_ echoes outside.

Tony’s reaction is instant, aiming his suit towards the nearest windows lining the top of the warehouse and shooting through it. Glass shatters around him and rains down inside the warehouse in a slow trickle as he flies outside. He pulls himself to a stop to get a look at the situation.

Rhodey is trapped beneath the remnants of the building, struggling against the pile of bricks and rebar covering his shoulders and chest. He’s just starting to push aside the thickest part of the pile when the monster drops from the sky. It lands on top of the bricks with a heavy, crackling _thump_ , trapping Rhodey beneath the pile. Rhodey grunts, struggling to free his now trapped arms from beneath the pile. A backhanded swipe from the creature rips the helmet off of Rhodey’s head and knocks his temple against the ground.

It has him dead to rights. Tony is too far away to reach him in time. Even at his top speed, he won’t reach him. He tries anyway; pushing full power to his boots and hands as he dives down towards the monster and Rhodey, diving to one side to avoid Rhodey’s ruined helmet.

_No no no no_ \---

The monster reaches down and pins Rhodey against the asphalt, its jaw stretching, drool dripping from its teeth. Tony bites back a furious scream as it rears back to take a bite---

And then it promptly jerks itself to the side and smashes its own face into the jagged edges of the fallen brick wall. It does this three more times with increasing intensity and violence before jumping back from Rhodey with a pained, frustrated shriek, reaching up to cover its face.

No, not cover. _Claw._ The monster starts to attack itself, clawing at its own flesh and eyes, screaming in pain and rage as it staggers away from Rhodey, putting more and more distance between itself and the fallen Avenger. It looks like the monster is being dragged from the inside somehow, as if there’s some unseen leash being forcefully yanked back.

Tony doesn’t miss a beat; he pushes more power into his repulsors, flying over Rhodey and grabbing the creature’s neck. He drags the monster further back, and then up into the air, clenching one gauntleted fist around the monster’s neck. Tony powers up the repulsor in his left hand, preparing to blast the monster’s face off--

Suddenly, the beast melts down to a smaller form, the darkness slipping away to reveal a teenage boy struggling in Tony's grip. Wide brown eyes, bloodshot and terrified, one turned black and blue from the wall, meet his own.

Peter, pale and shaking, still wearing the clothes from the day he disappeared, clings to his arm, babbling, "It won't listen to me, it won’t stop, _help me--_ "

Tony freezes. _God, no--_

The darkness flows over Peter's body, and he claws at it desperately, trying to pull it away, to get it off of himself. He screams. "No! Please, _no!"_

The demon's face swallows Peter's head, _literally_ swallows it. Teeth, jaws, and opaque eyes flow over the teen's head from the back of his skull, muffling his cries. Peter's face is pushed down, obscured by inky black tendrils of muscle. White, pupiless eyes squint at Tony above rows of needle sharp teeth. It is easily one of the most horrifying things he's ever seen.

The monster grins at him cruelly. " _ **Hungry.**_ "

It twists in Tony's grip, impossibly fast and strong, bracing its legs against Tony's stomach and pushing off in one smooth motion. The force of it sends Tony back into the side of the warehouse, bending it inward and shaking some bricks loose. Tony drops to his knees, staggered and briefly rattled, and pushes himself back onto his feet.

The creature’s jaws hang open, tongue slithering through the air, heedless of the rain. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the full form of it. And the white stylized image of a spider across its chest. It crouches, clawed toes digging into the concrete beneath it, arms held at the ready for a fight.

Tony staggers away from the wall, pulling himself free of the debris. His mind is a whirlwind, and his hands tremble inside the gauntlets as he aims a repulsor at the creature. The monster seems _amused_ by this more than anything else.

“Peter?” Tony asks, his voice shaking.

“We are _Venom_ ,” the monster hisses. And then it _twitches_ , staggering as if off balance, and its shifts and trembles. For one horrifying moment, Tony can see the outline of a face pressing against the inside of Venom’s chest. Venom looks confused, furious, and roughly shakes itself. “ _We are **Venom!**_ ”

Tony activates his comm. “Cap, we’ve got a situation--”

Venom roars, and it sounds almost like a pleading scream as it leaps for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally finds out what happened the day Peter disappeared.

It all happens very quickly.

Tony stares at Venom as it leaps for him. That _scream_ , that horrible shriek, is still echoing across the parking lot and warehouse. The image of the body inside Venom’s body struggling against the darkness surrounding it is playing over and over in his mind, rooting him to the spot.

Peter-- _Venom_ \--is flying towards him in a furious charge, clawed feet tearing deep furrows through the cracked concrete beneath its feet as it moves. 

Tony leaps into the air, firing his repulsors, but far too late. The shots go wide as Venom crashes into him with a snarling tackle, and Tony drops back onto his feet. He braces himself against Venom, barely keeping himself from being bowled over by its strength alone. It growls, twitching against him, one moment straining forward to snap its teeth at his head, the next drawing back, straining against an unseen leash. The _strength_ behind Venom’s movements is both sobering and terrifying, and Tony doesn’t doubt for a moment that the only reason he still has a head is because Peter is fighting against this thing with everything he has.

Tony struggles against Venom, mostly in vain. His suits are strong, powerful tools capable of tossing cars aside easily if it came to that. But they’re mostly built to be agile; you can’t hit what you don’t see. He balances speed with power, and his strategy tends towards overwhelming firepower delivered in a lightning strike from above. He certainly can’t do that when wrestling with something just a bit smaller than the _Hulk,_ and he won’t win a wrestling match for the same reason.

He tries anyway. It’s all he can do.

“I’ll fix this, I promise,” Tony says calmly, facing the monster head on. He has a repulsor placed against Venom’s head, but he just can’t bring himself to _fire._ Not when he knows Peter’s in there. “I’ll get you out of this, kid, but you have to calm down. All right?”

It almost starts to work. He watches Venom shift in place, twitching restlessly. The strength in its hold on his wrist and arms starts to lessen. 

And then Venom slams its head into his helmet, the movement so sudden and sharp that Tony can feel and _hear_ his helmet crack. FRIDAY immediately runs diagnostics. A red flashing alert to the right of his screen lists damage to the suit--all of it is superficial, except his transmitter is damaged now. He tries to activate it, and hears only static in response.

Which is, naturally, the exact moment when Steve gets on the comms.

“Report.”

“God, you have the worst timing, Rogers,” Tony mutters. 

The holographic HUD inside his helmet is bright with alerts and status reports. Tony can feel something warm run down his face and neck, mixing with sweat. He’s seeing double, and black spots dot his vision, and he staggers for a moment, before snapping an arm up to aim a repulsor at Venom’s chest. It’s set to non-lethal; Tony doesn’t want to hurt Peter, he just needs some space.

Unfortunately, Venom is faster and stronger. It balls up one clawed fist and throws a haymaker and fast enough to send Tony flying back towards Rhodey, helmet cracking further from the blow. He’s disoriented, and suddenly very thankful that the helmet is reinforced. He wouldn’t have a head at all after that blow without it.

“Tony, report!” Steve repeats, tense. After a few moments, he growls, “Clint, get us there--”

Venom stands above him, fists clenched, twitching restlessly. The world is spinning for him, the ground tilting at odd angles that make it difficult for him to stand. He pushes himself up to his knees, and holds out a hand in a warding motion while swaying drunkenly. 

He groans, "Kid, if you can hear me, _fight it._ Just like you did with Rhodey. You have to _fight it._ ” 

At least, he has to fight it until the rest of the Avengers get here. He’ll have a brand new set of problems following their arrival (“hi, guys, I’ve suddenly decided to _not_ kill the seven foot tall brain eating monster terrorizing the city, hope that’s cool!”) but he can handle that. Probably. He just needs more _time_.

Venom is shifting, twitching. At war with itself. Every move it makes stutters, as if about to fall into a seizure. Finally, it lets out a furious roar and whirls on Tony, arms held out towards him with its massive palms facing him. 

And then it starts spewing out black webbing, starting with Tony’s knees and working its way up over his head. It shoots out fast, in ropes as thick as the Hulk’s thumb, and Tony can’t break free of it. Hell, he can’t even move his _arm_. The webbing has him covered trapped within seconds. By the time a minute passes, he’s trapped beneath several layers, desperately trying to break free of the stuff. He has no luck. He can’t break through the fleshy, black webbing; he’s trapped. Wrapped in a cocoon of black that oozes and shifts like an organ. 

He struggles, trying to burn, cut, or force his way out. And gets nowhere for his efforts. One hand is partially sticking out and pressed against the outer layer, and he focuses his attention on that. He doesn't even make a dent in it. FRIDAY’s scans can’t even penetrate the webbing. He’s essentially blind and trapped.

He can still hear, though it’s muffled. His helmet’s sensors can still amplify sound, even through this cocoon of gunk. He stops, tilts his head, listening. There’s nothing around him. Just wind, rain, and thunder. He panics, boosting the power to his speakers on the outside of the suit. “Rhodey? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says blearily. He sounds slightly concussed, his words slurring together. For Tony, it’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. He can’t imagine what would happen if Rhodey was dealt a killing blow by Venom. By Peter. “I’m still here. That thing just ran off. You okay in there?”

“I’m stuck, and my comms can’t get very far,” Tony says. “Can you call Cap?”

It’s silent for a few moments before Rhodey sighs. “Yeah. I activated the panic button on my suit. The quinjet should be lit up like a Christmas tree now. You okay? It didn’t put any eggs in you, did it? Our friendship might be cancelled if a chestburster comes out of you, fair warning.”

“No eggs, just nightmares.” 

And what nightmares they’ll be. He still hasn’t fully come to terms with what just happened, and he likes the implications even less. Peter isn’t dead. He’s been---what? Taken? Infected? And _eating people_ , which falls a bit short of ‘acceptable superhero behavior’ by a significant margin. Add to that, the police and the Avengers are actively hunting him down with deadly intent.

So to sum everything up, things are a bit tense at the moment.

He waits. He thinks. He struggles against the cocoon, but eventually gives it up. Even if he manages to free himself, Peter-- _Venom_ \--is long gone. Either to a new nest or one of the others. If they’re lucky, no one else will show up missing their heads by morning. But there’s no guarantee for tomorrow or the night after that.

_How do I fix this?_

Step one would be to get out of this cocoon of gunk. Some of it is oozing into his suit and the smell is nothing short of horrific. Burnt rubber comes to mind. Spoiled meat follows. A bit of the slime hits his chest from between the seams of his suit and the two scents combine with the smell of his own sweat and blood into a truly horrendous mixture.

Right. Step one, get the hell out of here. What then?

Step two would involve getting the police to back off and call off their manhunt. A pretty tall order, given there are so many bodies piling up around the city, and the city is in a soft lockdown over it. Police are going to face tremendous pressure to end the threat _now_. So will the Avengers, and they’ve got just as much riding on this. If the newly reunited Avengers are given an assignment that they can’t complete....

Well, all that work getting rid of Ross and revising the Accords won’t have meant a damn thing. Not that Tony currently _cares_ about that, not in the face of everything that’s happened in the past ten minutes, but it adds another wrinkle to the issue at hand. The Avengers might be hesitant to call off the hunt. They need the win as much as the NYPD needs Venom off the streets, and Tony isn't delusional enough to think their working relationship would survive another sundering. Not this soon.

And finally, step three: help Peter. A rather tall order given that he has no idea what’s _happened_ to Peter. This is unprecedented, to say the least. Something he's never planned for (that changes now). He doesn't have any back up plans in place. No cleverly named protocols, no maps or strategies. He's starting at zero. He needs to find out what happened the day Peter went missing.

And he knows where to go for that information. 

“FRIDAY, can you hear me?”

“Only locally, boss,” she replies. “I’ve been disconnected from the network. The suit can’t transmit through the organic material surrounding you.”

“That’s fine. What’s your database date?”

“The last update occurred thirty seconds before you engaged with the entity that attacked Colonel Rhodes.”

“Good enough. Did the Life Foundation's satellite mission back in 2012 find extraterrestrial life?"

"It did. A small press conference was held by Carlton Drake. He claims they found parasites on a comet."

Tony chews on that for a moment. "Did they ever send the security videos I requested?”

“No,” FRIDAY says. “They claimed the cameras were fakes meant to deter thieves.”

 _Yeah, right._ “We’re going to look into that when I get out of this. Set a reminder. And if they don’t play ball, break into their systems. I want more than just the day Peter disappeared. I want the last six months. Every warehouse, every office building. _Everything._ Bonus points if you get into Carlton Drake's office, and penthouse."

“Understood, boss.”

“Oh, hey, Cap,” Rhodey says. He sounds downright exhausted; his words carry a vague slur, a telltale sign for a concussion.

“Easy, Rhodes. We’ve got you. Where’s Tony?” Steve asks.

There’s a brief pause as Tony wiggles his fingers on the hand partially sticking out of the black webbing. The silence outside the cocoon is deafening.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Clint says finally. “Please tell me he still has a head.”

“He does,” Rhodey says. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Jury’s still out on his brain. That was the worst tactical decision I’ve ever seen you make, Tony. Who the hell wrestles a brain eating monster?”

“Love you, too,” Tony replies, distracted. His voice is muffled by the cocoon.

“I’ve got Rhodes, Cap,” Sam says. “You should get Tony out of...whatever the hell that is.”

“Yeah. Right,” Steve says. Tony can all but picture the slightly baffled look on the man’s face. “All right. Hang on, Tony--”

He reaches in and grips Tony’s hand, clutching it tightly. And then begins to _pull_. Tony’s never given much thought to the extreme limits of Steve’s strength. Mostly because Steve has never actually _used_ his strength to its fullest limit; he’s strong, but he’s also clever, and tends to use the environment in the battlefield in such a way that his full strength isn't necessary. Tony’s more than a little surprised when Steve manages to pull him, suit and all, out of what amounts to be monster flavored superglue. It isn’t instantaneous; it’s a slow, dragging process with Tony adding a bit of _oomph_ to the process by kicking up his repulsors. Even then, it takes nearly five minutes of constant work for Tony to be freed of the sticky, black webbing. It finally lets go of him with a sickening _thlorp_ sound. Steve pulls him out of the darkness inside the cocoon and into a dreary New York night; rain falls steadily, the sound of it muffled by occasional rounds of thunder.

Tony staggers once he’s free, stumbling into Steve who steadies him. His suit is smeared with black goo, and a few of the joints are stiff with dried gunk. He stretches, breaking off as much of the stuff as he can. The smell of it fills his suit and it's strong enough to make Steve cover his nose and take a step back. Clint gags, and even Natasha has to blink and school her face into a carefully neutral expression against the wave of stench. 

“You all right?” Steve asks, frowning at him. “Your helmet--”

“I’m fine. Amazing.” He tries to fire off his repulsors. They sputter and die within seconds of lifting him off the ground and he drops down with a stagger that almost brings him to his knees. There’s too much of the slimy gunk in his suit for him to use it properly. And it definitely doesn’t smell any better when cooked. “Where did it go--”

“It’s long gone,” Clint says. “And you and Rhodes are both sitting out of the search after this. Your suit’s a biohazard and Rhodey’s got a concussion.”

Rhodey. Tony whirls to face his friend. Sam and Natasha are helping him up the quinjet ramp. “Is he--?”

“He’ll be fine,” Steve says, steadying Tony when he starts to sway on his feet. He's moving just a tad too fast for his own good, and the world tilts just a bit. “Sam’s already called in one of your medical teams at the tower to get him checked out. Frankly, you should get looked at, too.”

“No. Not happening," Tony replies, his words clipped. "We have to find--”

“You’re not in any shape to keep going,” Steve retorts. “Your helmet’s cracked, you're bleeding, and we don’t know what that slime you’re covered in could be doing to you--”

“I’m not leaving, Rogers," Tony snaps, whirling to face him. The effect is somewhat ruined when his balance fails and he staggers over to the left, prompting Steve to catch his arm. He’s such a goddamn helpful asshole sometimes. "You aren't facing that thing without me. I can help him."

“Help him?” Clint cuts in. “You want to _help_ the thing that’s been eating everyone’s heads around town?”

“Yes. It’s not just some random monster. It’s Peter. I watched it turn into him in front of me.”

That brings everything to a screeching halt. And now they're all staring at him. It takes him a moment to realize why, and when it clicks into place, he goes stiff and angry, clenching his fists.

"I'm not insane,” Tony says. “I know what I saw. It literally turned into Peter and then back again, right when I had it dead to rights."

And it’s a good thing, too. He was about to blow Venom’s head off when Peter took over.

"Tony---"

“You need to trust me,” Tony insists. “I’m not _imagining_ things--”

"How can we be sure it's Peter and not the monster?” Natasha asks. “If it's a shapeshifter. It might be able to assume the form of its past victims.”

Actually, that’s a very good point. And a horrifying one that Tony isn’t willing to entertain. "No. It's him. I know it is."

"Tony, we have no way of knowing that--" Steve begins.

"Yeah, well, _I_ do. It's him. We're not killing him. We're going to help him. If you're not okay with that, then get the hell out."

"You literally have a head wound--" Steve starts.

“Rhodes, what did you see?” Clint asks before Tony can match Steve’s tone.

“I don’t know,” Rhodey admits, swaying on his feet. "I blacked out after he knocked my helmet off. We’d have to look at the footage on my suit, but I don’t think I had the best angle."

“I did,” Tony cuts in. “I can show you right now. It's on my helmet--"

"The helmet you're currently bleeding through?" Natasha asks.

"Well. Yes.” A beat. “That’s the only helmet I have, Nat.”

“We can't watch it here,” Steve says, giving in. He still has a hand holding Tony steady on his own two feet. “We’re sitting ducks out here, and if it’s strong enough to put you and Rhodes out of action, then we can’t risk being caught off guard. Everyone, back on the ‘jet. We’ll debrief at the Tower.”

Tony starts to protest, but a wave of vertigo hits him just as he opens his mouth. He sighs just as another crack of thunder splits the sky. “Fine. Let’s get back home.”

*** * ***

Tony keeps to himself for the ride back to the Tower. It takes them longer than usual; the storm worsens the closer they get to the landing pad. He doesn’t notice. Just like he doesn’t notice Sam stitching up the cut across right eyebrow. He’s too shocked. Right now, he’s using that shock to keep himself calm, to push his confusion, horror, and guilt into a little box to be dealt with later. It’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing his shit.

The others give him some distance, but he can hear them murmur amongst each other near the cockpit. He can only imagine what they’re saying about his mental state, his head wound, whether he was emotionally stable enough to even be brought into the field in the first place.

Fuck ‘em. He’s stable enough for this.

The quinjet lands rougher than normal, rocking in the wind and rain. The ramp drops, and Tony stands up. It takes some effort. The black gunk smearing his suit dried on the way back, and glued him to the bench. He lurches for the ramp, idly shaking out his arms and legs as he moves. The gunk had played similar hell on the joins of his suit, apparently. The whole thing is going to need a deep clean before he can use it again, and that’s a process that can take hours.

“Clean up and meet for a debrief in thirty,” Steve says. “I’m going to update the police.”

“Stall them,” Tony says. “For as long as you can.

Steve nods. “I’ll keep it brief. Get your footage together for the debrief after you shower.”

Tony nods, turning to walk down the ramp with Rhodey. Once he’s on the landing pad, he just opts for stepping out of the suit altogether, and hears Rhodey do the same. The rain hits him hard, chilling him in the few seconds it takes for them to get inside.

“FRIDAY, get these suits clean and get our back ups ready.”

“Consider it done, boss,” FRIDAY says. “I’ve already started the shower for you. Colonel Rhodes, yours is ready in your own suite.”

“Thanks, FRI,” Rhodey says, idly rubbing his head as he walks past Tony to his suite.

“Keep an eye on him, FRIDAY. He took a big hit out there,” Tony says. “And get the footage off my suit.”

“Already working on it,” FRIDAY replies.

*** * ***

Thirty minutes later, the Avengers are gathered back in the conference room just down the hall from the common room. The windows looking out over the city show distant lights from the streets below and flashes of lightning in the clouds above. Occasionally, thunder rattles the windows themselves, and Tony, standing near one of the windows, idly wonders if Thor will make an appearance.

Behind him, the holoscreen shows the footage from his suit. It doesn’t take long; maybe fifteen minutes while he searches the warehouse, and then approximately two minutes where Venom kicked his ass.

The recording ends, and the room goes quiet after FRIDAY brings the lights back up.

Rhodey stares at the holoscreen with something close to shock. "Jesus. It really does look like Peter."

“Which is exactly what I said back at the warehouse,” Tony says, turning away from the window.

"We don't know that’s it him," Natasha says quietly. "And no offense, but neither of you are thinking clearly. It could be a shapeshifter. It could be taking the form of its victims."

"So, how do we prove that it's Peter?" Steve asks quietly.

That's the million dollar question, and the room goes silent as each considers it. They don't have DNA samples or blood samples, nothing physical that Tony can use as a reference.

Tony paces the room as he thinks. There must be _something--_

"Voice analysis," Clint says, as if struck by a sudden revelation. He glances at Natasha for a moment, then back to Tony. "Most people who mimic voices don't get everything right. It can fool people over the phone, maybe friends or family, but it doesn't usually work on a computer. Can FRIDAY pull a sample of Peter's voice and match it to the footage on your helmet?"

That's a good question. He glances at one of the cameras around the room. "FRI?"

"I can. I'll need to use a sample similar to the tone Peter uses in the footage, boss."

"Do it."

The holoscreen shifts. First, it plays Peter's voice from the footage on Tony's helmet, marking the hills, valleys, and mountains of his word cadence.

"It won't listen to me, it won't stop, _help me_ \--"

Tony stiffens, forcing himself to breathe and stay calm. If he never hears that again, it'll be too soon.

The next sample plays.

"I just wanted to be like _you--_ "

Okay, that's worse. He clenches his hand snapping his pen in half before dropping it. He runs his other hand down his face. _Christ_ , he had been such an asshole to the kid. It’s a wonder Peter even talked to him after that.

"Tony," Steve says quietly. 

Tony drops his hand, looking at Steve. Steve isn't looking at him however. His gaze is firmly placed on the holoscreen. The rest of the Avengers are similarly focused.

FRIDAY had mapped that second phrase as well. It's a perfect match.

Tony takes in a slow, deep breath. "Right. Mystery solved. Do you guys believe me now?"

“Yes, we do,” Steve replies, as Clint nods in the background. Sam nods as well, his eyes focused on the voice print analysis.

“Next question is how do we help?” Clint asks. His shoulders are tense, and he’s fidgety now, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “That thing is _in_ Peter. It sank right down into his skin before it took him over again.”

“The first step is finding him at all,” Sam says. “And I’m betting Venom is in one of those hidey holes the cops found.”

“Why do you think that?” Rhodes asks.

Sam goes quiet, thinking, before looking up at the ceiling. “FRIDAY? Can you show us a picture of Peter from his drone experiment and place it next to the last image we have of him from Tony’s suit.”

“Of course,” FRIDAY replies. 

Immediately the holoscreen shifts. An image of Peter sitting in Tony’s lab pops up, a slightly nervous grin on his face while he waves at the camera. Beside it, another image appears, Tony’s gauntlet holding him by the neck after Venom draws back beneath his skin.

“Look at the left picture, and then look at the other,” Sam says. "He's lost weight."

The difference is starkly clear after that. Peter’s lost the chubby cheeked look all teenagers carry into their twenties. Judging by how loosely his shirt hangs off of him, he’s lost more than the baby fat. His cheeks are hollow, his arms smaller, and his neck and shoulders are thinner than Tony remembers. Painfully thin, as if he's been starved to almost nothing. 

Tony’s stomach drops.

Sam stands up. “That thing said it’s ‘hungry.’ I’d bet you anything that the kid’s been fighting this thing ever since he disappeared, trying to keep it from feeding."

“The nest I found wasn’t a place to rest. It was a cocoon. Or a trap,” Tony says, half to himself. “He only uses his web fluid like that to trap people he’s caught for the police to find. Son of a bitch.”

“It didn’t work every time, but I bet it worked more often than not,” Rhodey adds. “The only reason it hasn’t been eating half the city is because of Pete. He stopped it from killing me. He must have been able to take control of it himself at some point. Hell, he might have tried to find help.”

Tony’s mind snaps back to the funeral.

_‘I keep having dreams about him. We weren’t even friends.’_

_‘Boss, there’s something strange on the sensors, too high for pigeons to reach.’_

‘ _He’s not dead. I heard him last night.’_

 _‘Oh, sweetie, I had that same dream. It’s just grief._ ’

Son of a _bitch._ Tony’s jaw clenches. He begins to pace, restless and keyed up. More of the picture is being formed and he doesn't like it at all.

“Which means _he_ hasn’t been eating either. He’s been fighting it. Sabotaging it,” Tony says.

“How bad is that for him?” Natasha asks.

“How bad would it be for Cap to not eat for the better part of a month while fighting something inside his own mind at every waking moment?” Rhodey replies. 

“Bad,” Steve responds quietly. “Very bad.”

The conversation continues, but Tony tunes them out.

Clint, standing at the back of the room, has grown quiet. The expression on his face is distant and haunted, and Tony has no doubt that he’s thinking back to the time Loki had forced him into his service. He’s seen the effects of it on Clint, a hardened field agent of SHIELD. How is this going to affect Peter?

Horror builds upon horror. Tony balks at the thought of everything Peter’s gone through. Here he was, moping around his lab, planning a funeral, mourning, all while Peter fought tooth and nail to keep this thing from slaughtering people in the city. No one can fight like that for days at a time without rest. 

At least Tony understands _why_ the majority of the bodies piling up around New York came from the worst of the worst; Venom isn’t hunting down innocent people and using Peter’s body to eat them. That’s a point in his favor, though Tony knows the kid well enough that it ultimately doesn’t matter _who_ he killed, just _that_ he killed at all. The kid isn’t a pacifist, but he adamantly refuses to even entertain the thought of killing in self defense. Being _forced_ to commit cannabilistic murder for weeks on end won’t do that flourishing guilt complex of his any favors.

Well, that can be addressed later. Right now, Tony needs to focus on step three of his little plan first: figure out how to get the kid back to normal. That’s a pretty tall order since he doesn’t have a goddamn clue how any of this happened in the first place. Did something left over from the Battle for New York slip out of the cracks? Did Peter mutate _further?_ It could be possible, but unlikely. Unless Norman Osborn is injecting spiders with xenomorph rejects--

He stops pacing and turns to look at the backpack sitting on the examination table, his mind ticking away at the facts, building connections that have been waiting to form since the day this all started.

Peter disappeared near the Life Foundation’s warehouse. His ‘body’ was found in the alleyway with three Life Foundation employees, all of them with rap sheets full of convictions for violent crimes. The Life Foundation, a company focused on finding extraterrestrial life, has at least one successful space mission behind them and that sole mission claims to have found alien life that Tony had _assumed_ to be microscopic at best. The same company that’s recently made a shift into biotech, with a focus on parasitic life forms, seemingly at odds with their previous mission statement. 

There’s a good chance their mission found something significantly larger than microscopic.

“FRIDAY, clear the screen,” he says, coming to a stop. The others pause their conversation to look at him, including Clint, who was seemingly snapped out of whatever memories he’d been trapped inside moments ago. “You know what, clear all of your auxiliary tasks, too. I want you completely focused on your next assignment.”

“Of course, boss,” FRIDAY replies. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“The Life Foundation. How good is their network security?”

“Decent, but nothing I can’t handle.” There’s a cocky lilt to her voice, as if she’s offended by the very idea.

“I want security cam footage, as much as you can get. Can you get in and out without them noticing?” Tony asks. 

There’s a half second’s pause before FRIDAY answers. “More or less. I can mask the entry, which will at least buy us time.”

“Do it. Make sure Stark Industries isn’t associated with the breach. I’d rather not make Pepper’s day any worse than it already is.”

“Of course,” FRIDAY replies.

“Exactly how many laws are we breaking right now?” Sam asks Rhodey.

“Basically all of them,” Rhodey replies dryly. “This will be a shit show if the feds find out about it.”

“They won’t,” Clint says, finally joining the group again. He glances at the others. “Right?”

“Right,” Steve answers.

“Transfer complete,” FRIDAY says. “Decompiling. Also complete. I have it, boss. There are two dates on the security footage that show Peter.” 

“Show them,” Tony says, crossing his arms and facing the nearest holoscreen.

The screen fills with the image of the inside of a warehouse. Men in blue coveralls are carefully moving clear containers off of a hand truck and onto the ground. Strange, semi liquid blobs move, shift, or dart around inside the containers. There are three: one purple, one red, and one black. The largest is the black one, and it strikes at the sides of its cage like a snake, it’s white eyes focusing on its handlers hands with each strike. It accomplishes nothing; the creature bounces harmlessly off of its cage.

The men ignore it. 

The men begin to load up a box truck parked inside the warehouse. The container holding the purple creature is loaded first, then the red. There’s no sound, but the men are obviously talking to one another. One holds up a map of the city and starts to talk to one of his coworkers while the third pulls out his phone and leans against the hand truck. He doesn’t notice the precarious balance of Venom’s container as it starts to tilt towards the cement floor.

And he certainly doesn’t notice it when four masked gunmen kick in the nearest door and charge inside the warehouse. They aim their rifles squarely at the three workers, and its clear from their body language that they’re ordering the workers against the wall. There’s no sound, but the message is clear as day. The worker leaning against the hand truck argues with the gunmen, shoulders squared, firmly pointing at the nearest man. He earns himself a crack across the jaw with the butt of a rifle. The blow is sharp, sure, and strong enough to send him sprawling over the hand truck.

And as he falls, he knocks Venom’s container to the ground. It shatters, and the creature slithers out of it and into the shadows like oil.

The rest of the workers are quick to get over to the wall after that. The gunmen start to pack up various equipment and boxes on the hand truck.

Something red and blue darts across the corner of the screen. A moment later, the gunman furthest back from the group is promptly yanked into the shadows above. His rifle starts to fall and almost reaches the ground before a web shoots from the dark and yanks it up as well, preventing it from clattering across the ground.

“Not bad,” Clint says quietly.

“Room for improvement,” Natasha says.

The next two gunmen join their friend. The third gunman can be seen struggling against a cocoon of webbing, suspended from a catwalk above. The fourth becomes a problem. He looks up just as the web comes for him from the shadows and tosses his rifle into it before ducking away, dodging another of Peter’s webs before pulling out a knife nearly as long as his forearm. He stares up at the ceiling, settling into a fighting stance and keeping his head on a swivel, constantly peering into the shadows for a sign of Peter. 

Peter lowers himself slowly and silently behind the gunman, hanging upside down. For awhile, he simply sways behind the gunman, staying just out of sight while the man waves the knife around wildly and shouts threats towards the ceiling.

“Dammit, kid, what did I say about showboating,” Tony mutters.

“Wonder where he picked up that habit from,” Rhodey says. He ignores Tony’s scoff.

Finally, Peter uses a web to yank the knife out of the man’s hand. He tosses the knife further into the warehouse, shoots another glob of web fluid across the startled man’s eyes, drops off of his own web with a casual flip, and uses it to tie the man up, quickly wrapping him up in it and uses two more shots of web to cocoon him just like the other gunmen.

Venom falls from the ceiling and lands across Peter’s shoulders and back while he’s busy webbing up the last of the gunmen. It covers his shoulders, his arms, and face, flowing over and around him. And then it sinks through his suit and disappears altogether.

Peter staggers away from the gunman, swiping at his arms and face before looking them over and then up into the shadows above. He peers into the dark for a long time, tense and ready for a fight. Finally, finding nothing, he waves an admonishing finger at the cocooned (and now thoroughly freaked out) gunman, before leaping into the air and swinging back out of the warehouse.

The recording ends.

“When did this happen?” Tony asks.

“Two months before Peter’s disappearance,” FRIDAY replies.

Two months. Those same two months where Peter became withdrawn, pale, and moody. Hell, the kid probably had no idea he even had an unwanted guest. And Tony spent all two months cheerfully oblivious to what was going on right in front of him. 

“His suit didn’t pick it up?”

“The AI in his suit recorded an anomaly but nothing beyond that.”

“Nothing?” He’s raising his voice, and he can see Steve frown at him from the corner of his eye, but fuck it. “Nothing at _all?_ Karen records an anomaly and makes no note of it? Why didn’t she alert me?”

“According to her report from that night, it was nothing more substantial than ‘water,’ boss. She only enhances Peter’s sight. There are no cameras wired to the back of his suit, and no real sensors to speak of. Peter’s senses registered higher than your most advanced sensors on your own suit, so you reasoned he didn’t need them.”

Tony scowls, rubs his eyes, and sighs.

“You said there was more, FRIDAY?” Steve asks.

“There is, Captain.” 

The holoscreen shifts, showing the image of the infamous alleyway where Peter went missing. Three men stand in the alley, under a gloomy grey sky, all of them armed. Two of them are muscular to an almost ludicrous degree, and the third is a weasel faced man not much larger than Peter, holding a reinforced container.

FRIDAY, running facial recognition subroutines in the background, identify each man in the image along the bottom of the holoscreen. Most are wanted for murder, trafficking, or, in one case, mayhem. Tony wasn’t even aware that was an actual crime people went to prison for.

There’s audio in this one. Tony has a sneaking suspicion audio was enabled for this recording and none of the others. In fact, he’d bet on it. 

“The boss thinks the parasite found a new host, which means that poor bastard is probably getting eaten from the inside out. The eggheads say this’ll draw the freak out,” one of the bigger men says, holding up something that looks more like a replica sonic screwdriver than anything else. 

“What is it?” the other large man asks.

“Some sort of sound thing. Dunno what range it’s set to. Low, I think? Something only they can hear, so we’ll be fine.”

“You think it’ll work?” Weasel Face asks. “And don’t you guys need a new host for the thing? I thought you said these alien things don’t like being alone after they start bonding to people.”

“It’ll work,” the man says, shrugging. “It’ll hear it from miles away. When it comes, we’ll handle the host, you handle parasite. It’ll be fine in that container as long as you catch it in time. Got it?”

“And then I’ll be done working for you guys? For good this time?”

“Yeah, man. You’ll be done with us,” the other man says, his tone a bit _too_ cheerful.

Weasel Face doesn’t seem to notice. He just looks relieved. Tony almost pities the idiot. “Right. Good.”

The big man turns on the device, and the three men settle in to wait along the alley. Steve winces.

“You can hear that?” Clint asks.

“Barely,” Steve says. “It’s more feeling than sound. I’d definitely go looking for whatever it was if I heard it in person.”

If Steve can hear it through a damn camera, then it’s no wonder why Peter went down that alley. Nothing happens for a few minutes, but eventually, Peter appears at the end of the alley, wearing Steve’s old jacket, with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He glances around, pausing at the mouth of the alley. The man holding the device turns it up (drawing out a bigger wince from Steve), and Peter cringes back before shuffling forward in almost a daze. 

“Stop right here,” the man says, pointing at a spot between the three men. 

Peter stumbles towards that spot, swaying heavily with every step. His eyes are blank. No pupils, no iris, just a blank whiteness edged by black. It’s the second creepiest thing Tony’s seen in his life. The two larger men pull out oddly shaped pistols, not quite aiming them at Peter.

“Wow, it’s really working,” Weasel Face says. “Man, he’s just a damn zombie.”

He sets the container down and walks over to Peter. They’re the same size and height, Tony notices. And their outfits match, except for--

“Nice jacket, kid,” Weasel Face remarks, tugging at it. “Think it’d look better on me, though.”

He tugs it off of Peter easily. The kid doesn’t even seem to realize the man is stealing his coat. Weasel Face shrugs it on, amused, then steps in front of Peter. He ducks in to look at his eyes and whistles. 

“Whoa. Freaky,” he remarks, snapping his fingers in front of Peter’s face. “Hey, what’d you do to his eyes?”

“His what?” the big man asks, aiming his gun at Peter’s head.

“His eyes. They’re all--” Weasel Face starts to say.

He doesn’t finish it. Venom erupts out of Peter, enveloping him with a shriek of rage and pain, clutching its own head and staggering around the alley. The man with the device aims his gun at Venom and fires, the shot going wide.

Things fall apart _very_ quickly after that. Venom snaps its jaws shut around Weasel Face’s head seconds later and tosses the body aside. He never saw it coming. The men with the guns start firing at Venom in earnest, to no real effect. Venom is on them in seconds, and it tears them both to shreds before smashing the sonic device across the asphalt. Tony can understand why the police thought they found _three_ bodies plus ‘Peter’ in that alley. By the time Venom is through,the whole thing is a blood soaked, gory mess. 

Venom stands amongst the carnage and grins. It shakes itself free of blood, like a dog shedding water, and drops Peter’s backpack to the ground. It snatches up one of the straps in one massive clawed hand, aims a wrist towards the roof of the deli next door, and yanks itself out of view.

The screen pauses, then goes dark. 

“That is the last image of Peter I was able to find in the footage,” FRIDAY says.

There’s a prolonged silence in the room. Outside, the wind rises, pressing a fresh sheet of rain against the windows. Tony can hear every drop strike home, even as he contemplates everything he just witnessed. 

This thing has been inside Peter, doing god only knows, for _months._ The Life Foundation’s goon squad lured him into that alley specifically to capture him. Peter was cornered, panicked, and apparently lost control of it. 

Tony squares his shoulders and starts to walk towards the door. A simple tap on his watch alerts FRIDAY and tells her to send one of his back up suits to the nearest exit.

Clint catches his eye. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to go pay a visit to Carlton Drake,” Tony says.

“You aren’t going alone, Tony,” Rhodey says, standing up. He sways on his feet, then sits back down.

“You aren’t in any shape to go anywhere,” Clint points out. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll come along,” Natasha says, standing up. “I’d like to see if they have another of those devices laying around. It might come in handy.”

Tony starts to object before Steve stands up. The others fall silent, and Tony feels that old pull of irritation again. That feeling of frustration that Steve can take command of a room by simply _standing up_ rather than saying anything. He fights it down; there’s no room for _that_ on top of everything else he’s seen today.

“We’ll split into two teams,” Steve says. “Tony, Clint, and Nat will pay a visit to Carlton Drake at the Life Foundation to find out everything he knows about the creature that’s taken over Peter. Nat’s reports say he’s nervous and desperate, and that might make him dangerous. Try to keep from hurting him to the point where we have a minor incident on our hands.”

“No promises,” Clint replies.

Tony doesn’t think ‘minor’ will cover the amount of damage he intends to do to Carlton fucking Drake. Rather than answer, he merely quirks an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve presses on as if he didn’t hear Clint. FRIDAY shifts the holoscreen, switching to a map of the city with the probable nests marked out in red. “I’ll be with Sam, and Rhodes to check in on the other hotspots the police noticed. Rhodes, you’ll be our mission control until you’re ready to be in the field again. Bring your suit with you, just in case. The sooner we find where Peter trapped himself, the better off we’ll be.” He stops, focusing on Tony. “Sound good?”

Tony mulls over it for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Let’s get to it. Clint, Nat, meet me in the garage. I’ve got to make a call before we go.”

The spy duo share a brief look between one another before leaving the room. Rhodey stands slowly, getting his bearings, between clapping Tony’s shoulder as he walks by. Sam is close behind him, and he gives Tony a respectful nod as he leaves.

Tony takes in a deep breath and sighs, moving to follow when Steve stops him just before he leaves the conference room.

"I want to bring Buck with us when we go back out there," Steve says.

"You think he can help?" Another pause, and Tony frowns. “Would he even be comfortable helping? He doesn’t know Pete.”

"I think you’d be surprised. I talked with him about it before we met for the debrief. He said he’ll help, if you’ll let him," Steve replies. “But he’ll stay out if you don’t want him there.”

Tony hesitates, mulling it over. A part of him _doesn’t_ want the man anywhere close to Peter. Another, more practical part knows that Rhodey’s in no shape to help if things go sideways, and that Steve and Sam could use the back up.

He sighs. “Fine. We’ll need as much help keeping him in one place as we can get. If it gets to be too much for him, pull him out. Immediately. Deal?”

Steve nods. “I’ll let him know. If nothing else, the two of us can take a few more hits than the others. If we need to wear Peter out before we can help him, it’d be best if focused on me and Buck than the rest of you.”

That’s a _very_ good point. Tony hadn’t considered that. “Right. Yeah.” He hesitates again, then gives him. “Be careful out there, Spangles. I just ordered you a new suit.”

As usual, the nickname proves to be both a source of amusement and annoyance to Steve, who shakes his head as he leaves. 

Tony stands alone in the conference room. Shock is starting to fall across him again, and he uses it once more. This time, it saves him from making a snap decision that he would later regret terribly.

“FRIDAY, call Detective Brannigan.”

*** * ***

It takes them almost no time at all to reach the Life Foundation’s skyscraper. The building isn’t very far from the Tower. Tony lets FRIDAY drive, stopping two blocks away from the building before approaching it on foot. Natasha disappears into the shadows, leaving Clint and Tony to their own devices. 

The speed with which Clint gets Tony inside Carlton Drake’s office is impressive and horrifying. Tony stares at Clint, mildly concerned, when he finds himself standing in the middle of Drake’s office not ten minutes after they parked. 

“Is it really this easy for you to get into places?” he asks.

Clint smirks and winks. “Do your thing, Tony. I’ll be here in case you need back up. If we timed this right, then Natasha will have Drake shuffled in here soon.”

Fair enough. Tony takes a moment to look over the decoration (tacky), the awards (mildly impressive), and the layout (uninspired). Finally, he settles himself into the plush leather chair behind the desk. And waits.

And like clockwork, the door opens not even five minutes later. Carlton Drake doesn’t look well. He’s pale, too skinny, and his movements are jerky in a way that suggests severe sleep deprivation or hardcore long term drug use. It’s almost as if he’s in a battle against himself. He moves easily for one moment, then jerkily the next, as if he’s never used his hands before in his life. Something about it triggers minor alarm bells in the back of Tony’s mind.

Drake stumbles to a stop when he sees Tony sitting at his desk, his expression shifting from shock to confusion, and finally, alarm. He starts to reach for a button, a silent alarm most likely--and stops when he finds Clint Barton standing in front of the alarm button.

“I wouldn’t bother with that,” Tony says. “I’ve already disabled it. Seriously, your security is pretty shoddy for a biocorporation. You should really invest into something a bit more substantial.”

“What do you want?” Drake asks warily, backing away from Clint. He keeps looking back and forth between Tony and Clint, clearly unsure of which one to focus on. 

“Don’t worry about him. He’s here as a friend,” Tony says. He smiles at Drake, and puts on his best CEO salesman voice, all while imagining strangling the bastard with his bare hands. “Rumor has it that you possess some really hot commodities, Drake. And that your business is in something of a precarious position.”

“How do you know that?” Drake asks, walking towards Tony. Annoyance has shifted to wary curiosity.

“Sit down. Let’s have a discussion, CEO to CEO,” Tony says. Drake scowls at him, fists clenched, but a wary glance at Clint seems to change his mind and he reluctantly sits down in one of the visitor chairs set in front of his desk. “I notice your company never answered me when I asked for that security footage from your warehouse. Which I find more than a little rude and suspicious. So I went on a little fishing trip and started snooping around. It seems you’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Drake.”

The anger drains from Carlton Drake’s face. “You did what.”

“You’ve been selling off all of your assets at a breakneck pace, your stock has fallen by ten percent, which is about when _my_ people start threatening to throw themselves off of the building and, frankly, you don’t look well,” Tony says, idly rocking back in Drake’s chair. “The eggheads at my company say yours is ripe for the taking, but I thought I’d have a little chat with you before I make an offer. Throw you a bone, so to speak. Stark Industries has a few space exploration projects on tap, and your company is pretty clever at that sort of thing. I think a joint venture would work out best for us. You have the knowledge, we have the money, and mergers take forever.”

Drake stares at him in silence, then looks past him, thinking. “I suppose our position has become a bit shaky lately. I think you’d be buying a nightmare, Stark.”

Tony tilts his head, watching Drake, and wondering just how much trouble he’d be in if he threw the man out of the nearest window. He’s pretty sure Steve would disapprove, but Nat and Clint would probably help. They seem like murder buddies. And watching the man fall to his death might even be satisfying.

Instead, he says, “Let's see if I can help. Start from the beginning.”

“That would take awhile,” Drake retorts. He suddenly stops and looks at Tony, clearly reconsidering. Tony marks another tally in the ‘drug use’ column; the man’s thoughts are almost as jerky as his movements. “Wait. You have Extremis.”

“Had. Past tense. I made sure every last sample was destroyed.” Not technically true. An inert version of the virus is kept in cold storage in a very safe place, along with instructions on how to cure it. He knows certain black book groups have been trying to replicate it, and he wants to keep a sample and cure on hand. Just in case.

Drake scoffs. “As if Tony Stark ever forgets. That virus could save my research.”

Tony stares at him incredulously. Did this man _really_ think that he’d go to all this trouble to break into his office just to make a business deal? “Why the hell would I give you a _bioweapon_? Exactly what kind of trouble are you in?”

“Not give, sell. And because it might be the only thing that can tame the monster that we set loose in New York,” Drake replies, sitting down again. He fidgets restlessly for a moment, then looks up at Tony. “We need it, Stark. As a weapon, yes, but not against _people._ ”

The man is absolutely desperate. Tony stares at him for a moment, then sighs. “You have my attention.”

“You’ve heard of my company and what we do. Privatized space exploration, mission support for NASA, satellite launches. We hit pay dirt with a comet sample mission. The comet NASA pointed us towards wasn’t made of ice rock at all. It was full of semi liquid life.”

“Aliens.”

“Aliens,” Drake confirms. “At first, we thought it was just microbes. Which is exciting, but not exactly profitable. And then the whole damn thing _shifted._ Like oil being swirled around in a bottle. A few ‘drops’ fell out of a larger pool and the satellite was able to grab five of them. We had to move quickly. That particular comet was on a collision course with the sun.”

 _Oh, thank Christ,_ Tony thinks. “And you brought them back here.”

“Yes. We were set to make the announcement in 2012. And then...” He makes a vague motion towards Tony and the Avenger lounging in his office. “Well.”

“And then attitudes towards extraterrestrial life became much less friendly,” Tony finishes for him.

“Exactly. We would’ve been told to destroy our samples. Hell, they probably wouldn’t have let us keep the satellite. That’s a multimillion dollar piece of equipment meant to work for the next twenty years; that alone was unacceptable. So I kept it quiet and said we didn’t find anything but dead lifeforms that may have been parasitic in nature.”

“And you brought it to Earth.” 

“Yes,” Drake replies simply. “I brought them here. Space travel isn’t quick, easy, or cheap. The return trip took years. We only got the satellite back this year, and by all rights, the samples should have been long dead by the time they reached us. Years of space travel, with no food, no water, no sunlight? What could survive that?”

“But they didn’t die.”

“No. In fact, one reproduced. Asexual reproduction. Can you imagine our shock?”

“You have _six_ of these fucking things?” Tony asks incredulously.

“We don’t have any now. Most of them died during our experiments.” Drake holds his hands up placatingly when Tony glares at him. “Look, we didn’t know they were that dangerous. We just thought we found some kind of animal slime. That changed our plans once more. We needed to know what we were dealing with. I authorized a series of experiments, just to figure out what they were. When we exposed them to mice, one separated from the others and attached itself to the mouse. It went _inside_ it, Stark, the way water sinks into cloth. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Despite himself, Tony is a tiny bit curious. “Then what happened?”

“The mouse regrew one of its missing legs. And then it exploded.”

Tony stares at Drake, takes in a deep breath, and pinches his nose. “Let me guess. You kept experimenting.”

“Yes. I authorized full experiments after that. The scientists discovered they were symbiotes, that they could bond with a living creature, at least for a short amount of time. They asked permission to expand their studies and I allowed it.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because when they bond with a host, when they _fully_ bond a mouse, or a dog, or a person, that creature becomes _perfect,_ ” Drake retorts. “We bonded them with hosts that were addicted to drugs, missing limbs, and a few subjects who were two steps away from death’s door. And you know what? They became _perfect_. Their bodies healed.” 

“Impressive,” Tony says. _Horrifying_ , actually.

Drake scowls. “But it never lasted longer than a minute. The changes occurred too quickly for the host to cope. It’s like the damn things couldn’t figure out how to change things slowly. We tried drugging the hosts, freezing them in ice, and introducing the symbiotes piece by piece. Nothing worked. We even bought up a few companies with promising research into parasites and medicine.”

Tony watches Drake, fingers steepled, and quietly imagines throwing the man through the nearest window. If he aims it just right, he might hit Norman Osborn's car. “Then what happened?”

Drake sighs shakily. “There was an incident.”

“An incident,” Tony repeats slowly. “You mean one of them escaped.”

To Drake’s credit, he looks about as unhappy about it as Tony feels. “Thanks to _Spiderman_ , yes. He broke into one of our facilities and got mixed up with a botched robbery, and knocked over a specimen container. It got out.”

Tony stares at him, silent. Eventually, Drake starts to speak again.

“We searched everywhere, but it’s New York, and it’s not meant to live on Earth unless it can find and attach itself to a host, and judging by our experiments? That’ll just accelerate the process. Every failed bonding wounds the symbiotes. They’re incompatible with life on Earth. The whole damn thing is a wash. All that cloak and dagger nonsense for it to end like this."

Tony debates on whether he should enlighten Drake about that or not. First, he asks the one question that’s been bothering him this whole time. "Why did your company buy Trask Labs?"

The question throws Drake off terribly. He blinks at Tony, frowning. "They had the cure to brain cancer in their research. Supposedly." Drake scowls. "That ended up being a bunch of bullshit, naturally. I’m just glad it didn’t cost me too much to buy the company.”

"Why the hell do you need that?"

"To sell and offset the expenses we’ve had piling up lately. And a good bit of PR. Can you imagine how _rich_ that would have made us? Even selling it below market value would’ve funded us for decades and made us a household name.” His face goes sour. He rolls his shoulders as if the perfectly tailored shirt and jacket covering his torso is too small. 

“But aside from that, exposure to a symbiote can _cause_ a form of brain cancer. That's why so many of our test subjects died. Their joining goes wrong somehow, and it triggers rapid growth of tumors in the brain. The tumors grow, erupt, and kill the host and symbiote, sometimes in minutes, but usually within hours. It’s an ugly death. Frankly, it was playing merry hell team morale. If it kept up, I was going to have to find a way to keep the soft hearted scientists from going to the press.”

Tony is silent for a moment, letting that sink in. “So instead of fostering a symbiotic relationship, you weaponized cancer.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Which is why we used subjects no one would care about going missing. Condemned prisoners, the homeless, people no one would care if they went missing. Even they didn’t deserve that kind of pain.”

Tony stares at him, horrified. “You what?”

Drake scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s no shortage of people who ultimately don’t matter, Stark. The homeless, the criminally insane, or the downright criminal. The bottom rung of society is full of them.” At Tony’s expression he rolls his eyes. “If any of them had survived, they would have been released back on the street, no harm done.”

“Given the fact that one of them is loose in the city and _eating_ people, I can’t quite come to that same conclusion.”

“Yes, that bothers me. It’s a loose end I want taken care of. Hence, Extremis,” Drake mutters. “But frankly, it’ll take care of itself. Unless that host is immune to cancer, it won’t matter. There were rumors ten years ago that Trask Labs had a vaccine that would help prevent brain cancer. That’s why we bought them."

"They never did have that vaccine.” Mostly because that research belongs to Richard Parker, who kept it hidden from them. “A few of my people looked into it.”

Drake buys the lie hook, line, and sinker. He sighs in frustration, reaching up to run his hand through his hair. “I knew it was too good to be true, but we’ve been a bit desperate. The only way to separate a symbiote from a host is with fire. Which is almost a worse death than having your brain explode from cancer.”

“Fire,” Tony repeats slowly. 

“They’re deathly afraid of it. We forced bondings between symbiotes and hosts by chasing the symbiotes with candles until they had no choice but to slip inside a host.” Drake makes a face. “By the end of it, the symbiotes refused to leave the bodies. We cremated the rest of them, and none of the symbiotes survived it. I had to pay out a hefty severance to the man who handled the bodies, by the way. He said he heard the symbiotes screaming inside the oven.”

Tony stares at him. Something in his expression must tip off Drake, because the immediately tenses. Suddenly, his eyes clear of that half faded, half manic look, and realization hits him. That’s when Tony knows the ruse is up for good.

"Let's see if I've got this straight," Tony says slowly.

“You aren’t here for a business deal at all,” Drake says numbly. “Oh god.”

Tony presses on as if he didn’t hear Drake. “Two months ago, a few of your hired goons started snatching people off the street. People you didn’t think would matter. Those are your _actual_ words, by the way, and earlier I found an email signed with your actual _name_ stating the same thing. Congrats on leaving a trail of evidence right back to your metaphorical house.” 

He stops short of calling Drake a dumbass, but his tone says it for him. Drake stares at him, eyes wide.

“Then you started forcing these alien things to _bond_ with people, essentially forcing them to kill every human being you could offer them. If these things are malevolent, they’d probably perfectly happy keeping that up, but it sounds like you forced a bunch of aliens just smart enough to know they were killing people into committing suicide. Except for the one that _escaped_ into the city. I’m sure you saw the news earlier tonight?”

Drake turns to run, sprinting for the nearest window. He moves preternaturally fast, and crosses half the distance towards the window before Clint and Tony can react. Clint sprints after him, but the distance is already too great.

Tony stands up and rolls back his sleeve. A flick of his wrist and near silent _thwip_ , and he stops Carlton Drake dead in his tracks, glued to the floor with a glob of web fluid.

“What--what the fuck is this?” Drake yells, struggling against the webbing. He only manages to get himself stuck further. “Is this _glue?_ ”

“Man, remind me to get one of those,” Clint says, slowing to a stop.

“Sorry, it’s the kid’s gimmick, not yours,” Tony says. He reaches up and taps one of his lapels, turning to speak into it. "You get all that, Brannigan?"

"Yup,” the detective replies, her voice made slightly tinny by the radio. 

“Clint, let them in,” Tony says, idly adjusting the webshooter on his wrist. Honestly, that was kind of fun. He might start wearing these himself. If nothing else, it’ll liven up board meetings.

Clint slaps a button near the door, and a flood of SWAT officers storms into the office, weapons aimed squarely at Carlton Drake. It’s a bit much, considering the man is glued to the floor and also in the presence of two Avengers, but Tony would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the theatrics. That look of dawning horror on Drake’s face is one he’ll savor for _years_.

“You set me up,” Drake says numbly. His shock grows into fury. “You _set me up._ How _dare_ you--”

Detective Brannigan strolls over to Drake and grabs his arms, securing his wrists behind his back with a set of handcuffs before pulling a small can of spray off of her belt. She sprays the webbing that has Drake’s foot glued to the floor. The fluid dissolves in seconds, becoming nothing more substantial than a puddle on the plush red carpet.

“Carlton Drake, you’re under arrest. For quite a lot of things, really. We’ll run down the list at the station, and then we’ll play a game of tag between local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies over who gets to interrogate you first,” she says, idly patting him down for weapons. 

“I want my lawyer,” Drake spits as she hauls him up off the carpet.

“I’ll be sure to give Mr. Thompson a call for you,” the detective replies dryly. “But you’d better settle in for a wait. I heard he’s gone on vacation recently.”

Drake scowls at her, stumbling as she grips the collar of his suit jacket and his elbow, firmly pushing him towards the door. He looks over his shoulder at Tony and Clint. “This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me, Stark! When I get out of this, I’ll find you and I’ll _kill_ you!”

Tony adjusts his webshooter once more. “Detective, I’d like to press charges on this man for assault.”

“Noted,” Brannigan replies, shoving Drake through the door and into the hallway. “The NYPD appreciates the Avengers’ help with this, by the way.”

“Tell them the next round of donuts is on me.” He hears Brannigan scoff at that and fights back a smirk.

The commotion moves further down the hall, then becomes silent. After a moment, Tony glances in the corner. “Were you really going to let him run for the window, Nat?”

“I was going to shoot out his knees, actually,” Natasha replies, stepping out of the shadows. She holsters her pistol and holds up a silver equipment case with her other hand. “I’ve got the device and updated Steve on the way up. They’ll be waiting for us on the roof.”

Clint casually swipes one of Drake’s coffee mugs off of his desk and tosses it into his backpack. At Tony’s questioning look, he smirks. “Keepsake. Come on, let’s go get your kid.”

Tony scoffs a little, following them out to the elevator. 

_We’re coming, kid. Just hang in there a little longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, this fic was three chapters long with a hard cap of 15k words.
> 
> The next chapter is the absolute final one. After that, either an epilogue or a fic with Peter's POV. We'll see.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain picks up when they step out on the roof, pelting them in a heavy wave pushed by a rising, chill wind. The three of them are soaked by the time the quinjet breaks through the clouds and hovers into view, the back ramp lowering to grant them access inside. Steve is at his side the moment Tony sets foot on the quinjet. The ramp starts to raise behind him; Clint goes to check his gear, Natasha sets the silver case beside him and joins him, pushing back a few damp strands of hair from her face.

“How’d it go?” Steve asks, adjusting the shield on his arm. His armor is soaked, and rain runs down his shield in small rivulets. They must have just finished searching a nest.

“Natasha found the device, Clint looked suitably threatening and has given me great cause for concern over my own security, and I managed to wrestle back my murderous impulses long enough to get Carlton Drake a one way ticket to prison,” Tony replies.

“Will the device work?”

“It will,” Natasha answers.

Tony’s suit is standing nearby, waiting for him, and he walks towards it, shucking off his tie and tossing his soaked suit jacket over onto a nearby bench. He steps inside it and it closes around him. It’s a slightly older model, not as agile or strong as his newest, but if he manages this right, he won’t need to use too much of either.

Right now, that’s looking like a pretty big ‘if.’

“What did you find out?” Rhodey asks. He’s sitting at the map in the center of the quinjet, already in his own suit. The map has three of the NYPD’s markers crossed out. The quinjet crosses the map in a slow arc, heading towards the next marker.

Tony adjusts his armor, popping off his left gauntlet and setting it on the small table near the map. “The only way to destroy a parasite is with fire. The parasites leave a dying host on their own, but sometimes they don’t. Carlton Drake is a fucking monster, for the record.”

“So, we don’t know how to get it out of Peter?” Sam asks, switching out of the cockpit so Clint can take over. “We just, what, shoot fire at it and hope for the best?”

“Something like that,” Tony replies. He gets to work on his gauntlet; he can easily adjust it so that it shoots out flames. The problem is heat shielding; there’s only so much he’s built into his gloves. The longer he leaves the flame on, the more likely it is he’ll burn himself. “Personally, I’m hoping the device Natasha stole from the Life Foundation’s labs will help keep it docile while we figure something out. Venom didn’t hulk out until it was threatened.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Barnes asks quietly.

Tony goes quiet, adding the finishing touches to his gauntlet before pulling it back on; it reconnects with an audible _click_. He can see the rest of the Avengers watching him and weighs his options. He knows what needs to happen if the thing in control of Peter can’t be removed. And he knows what Peter would want if it comes to that.

“Then you stand back and let me handle it,” Tony says after a few moments. “Either way, this ends tonight, before anyone else dies.”

Steve frowns. “Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that.”

“The rain will make it pretty damn hard to use fire,” Clint calls back from the cockpit. “The storm’s getting worse, and it won’t let up until morning. We might have better luck with containment.”

That may be a blessing; fire is the easy answer, as well as the worst one. It may be more useful as a intimidation or corralling tool, rather than an outright weapon. Thank god. 

“Where’s the next nest?” Tony asks.

“Abandoned construction site that’s not far from the Tower,” Rhodey replies. “What’s our plan when we get to the nest?”

Tony stands up and begins to manipulate the map, pulling up a holographic image of the half finished building. He points to a spot furthest from any residential areas, one big enough to accommodate the quinjet, the Avengers, and a seven foot tall body snatching alien parasite.

"We'll use the device. If we’re lucky, it'll draw Venom in from wherever it's hiding at the moment. If Peter's been keeping it from eating, then it'll be weak enough for us to handle."

"And how are we handling Venom?" Natasha asks.

“Carefully,” Steve replies. “Containment first.”

"Which translates to ‘stay back and let Rhodey and I do the work,’” Tony says. “Venom had us dead to rights before the kid intervened. There’s no guarantee he’ll do the same for you guys, so I want the rest of you as back up. We _cannot_ let him escape again. Keep him occupied if he tries to escape. Just keep him trapped." 

Tony starts to tap the map, marking out spots. "Nat, Clint, you two are our best ranged experts. Stay high, and stay mobile. Venom moves _fast_. Cap, Winter Soldier--"

"Barnes," he says, cutting Tony off. "Names are important. I don't want that name anymore."

Tony stops, nods, and tries again, “Barnes, you’re with Cap on the ground. Back up Rhodey and I. Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you can fly around without catching a lightning bolt to the face?”

“Pretty sure I can, yeah,” Sam answers. “What do you need me to do?”

“Cut Venom’s webbing when it tries to swing out of there. It’ll try to run when it realizes what we’re doing,” Tony says.

“Pull out anyone who gets hurt,” Steve adds.

“You got it.”

“Landing in three,” Clint calls back as the quinjet tilts towards the construction site. It rocks slightly when a powerful gust of wind pushes against it. 

The Avengers gather near the ramp, some of them catching themselves against the nearest wall or bench when Clint is forced to drop the quinjet quickly before its thrown off course by another gust of wind. Natasha sidles up to Tony and hands him the small device. Tony nods his thanks and grips it in his hand.

The construction site is half dirt, half asphalt, which means it’s really half mudpit and half slip and slide. Steel beams stick out of the ground, rising two storeys above, crossing here and there, with stadium lights strung up along them. Construction equipment is parked in a neat and orderly line on the far end of the asphalt beneath yet more lights. A tall fence surrounds the whole area, with tarp lining the inside of it to prevent pedestrians and potential thieves from peeking inside and seeing just what kind of equipment is being left unguarded. 

Tony and Rhodey keep to the asphalt, hovering above the ground while the others get into position. Tony can see Clint and Natasha melt into the shadows not touched by the lights while Sam takes to the sky, hovering unseen among the fog and rain. Steve and Bucky stand at opposite ends, ready to move in and help Tony and Rhodey.

_Get on with it._ Tony takes in a deep breath, and hits the button. Steve and Bucky wince, then settle into their respective positions, squinting against both the noise and the rain. And then they wait. 

Above the rain, thunder, and wind, Tony hears _something_ roar in the distance.

*** * ***

The device, as it turns out, does _not_ have a calming effect on Venom.

This becomes abundantly clear when Venom shoots out of the darkness and tackles Steve from behind. The two of them land in a flurry of fists, teeth, and shield, skittering across the ground. Steve’s forced to wrestle with Venom and, briefly, amazingly, gains the upper hand. He backhands Venom with his shield, kicks it off of himself, and pins it. He raises his shield above his head--

The beast melts down to Peter’s form again, small and trembling in Steve’s hands.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I don’t want to--please, _stop me--_ ”

Steve scrambles back and away from Peter as if he’s been burned, horrified and sick. “Jesus--”

Venom snatches back control of Peter’s body in a heartbeat, flipping itself over onto its hands and feet before launching itself at Steve. He can barely bring his shield up in time to take the brunt of Venom’s weight against it. Venom, taller and broader than Steve, stretches its jaws wide in a wicked grin before snapping it head towards Steve’s face.

Steve’s reflexes kick in; he ducks his head to the side, barely escaping a fatal bite, but can’t avoid Venom completely. Venom sinks its needle sharp fangs into his shoulder, and Steve cries out in pain. It becomes a contest between Venom’s teeth and Steve’s shoulder after that. There’s a _crack_ , and Steve muffles another startled shout of pain. Venom latches onto his shoulder, gradually pushing back the shield protecting Steve’s neck and head.

Barnes leaps on Venom’s back, wrapping his arms around Venom’s shoulders and hauling back as hard as he can. He uses simple leverage to pull Venom off of Steve, latching his metal arm around Venom’s throat in a chokehold. It’s a slow process, but between Steve pushing Venom away with his shield and Barnes pulling it off of him, Venom is gradually pulled up and away from Steve. Blood stains its needle sharp teeth and runs down its chin and it struggles against them both until Steve lands a desperate underhanded blow against Venom’s chin with his shield, launching it back several feet.

Venom snarls, shaking its head, crouches low, preparing to 

Something _pops_ in the air near Venom’s head and a blinding flash of light follows. Venom shrieks, stumbling back and holding its eyes for a moment. It shakes its head, then whips out a string of black webbing and launches itself into the air.

A second _pop_ \--and Tony can see it's one of Clint’s flashbang arrows, a creation he previously considered absolutely ludicrous--and another flash of light. This time Venom keeps moving despite its shriek of pain. Clint aims another arrow, walking backwards along a steel beam to keep some distance between himself and Venom. His movements are steady and calm. They become significantly less so when Venom surges across the steel scaffolding to launch itself at him. 

“Kid, you _don’t_ want to do this,” Clint says, aiming the arrow between Venom’s eyes. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Venom stops as if struck, trembling in place as it glowers at Clint. A flash of lightning illuminates a third person standing nearby.

Natasha swings in from the shadows and bodily kicks Venom off of the steel beam completely, sending it flying back down to the ground below. It lands in the mud with a grunt, and when it stands this time, it’s not nearly as quick or nimble. 

Time to take control of this situation, Tony thinks. He motions for Rhodey to go high.

“Get back! Let me talk to him!” Tony orders. He can see Sam pull Steve out of the fight and Clint lower his arrow. Natasha disappears back into the shadows.

Venom whirls around to face him, jaws gaping open in a wicked snarl, crouched and ready for a fight. But it doesn’t move, despite how agitated it seems.

“The last time we left you alone with this thing, it didn’t end well,” Clint murmurs into the comms.

“Just do what I say!” Tony barks, flying towards Venom. 

He clicks on his external comms and strafes into Venom’s view, hovering just beyond its reach. That doesn't keep it from lashing a tentacle out at Tony. Tony weaves around it without much thought; that attack had been half hearted at best. Peter’s fighting it even now. 

“Peter, we--” 

He doesn’t get farther than that. Venom launches itself at him, and Tony avoids being taken down to the ground by mere inches. Venom stalks the ground beneath him, moving slower than before, but 

“We are _**Venom**_ ,” it growls. 

“Peter,” Tony replies firmly. “We’re going to--”

Venom lets out a furious roar, and this time, Tony doesn’t move fast enough. Venom latches onto him, overloading the thrusters along his back and boots, digging dagger tipped black claws into the metal. It roars again, clearly eager to attack further but completely unable to for some reason. It’s the only thing that’s keeping Tony from losing his head. As it is, he lands roughly, wrestling Venom on the slick asphalt.

This isn’t going well. Why the hell isn’t this working? Has it taken the kid over completely? It should work! The kid’s answered to his name--

And then he stops. He’s called for _Peter,_ yes, but there’s a second name he _has’t_ tried yet. And like Barnes said. Names are important.

Tony braces himself against Venom. A simple twitch of his head retracts the helmet, and he finds himself face to face with the monster. It’s a reckless, stupid idea, but it might work. Tony stares into the white, pupilless eyes of Venom and sees his own reflection staring back at himself.

“Spiderman, we can’t do this without your help!" he shouts, straining to be heard above the device, the wind, the rain, and thunder.

Venom rears back as if struck. The strength in its limbs fails for a moment and Tony manages to _push back_ the monster.

"Come on, Spiderman! We need you! Help us!” Tony yells, never breaking eye contact with Venom.

The change is instantaneous. Venom loses that snarling grin and shudders, head to toe, jerking in place. It lets out a whining snarl, the sound somehow wounded as two skinny arms erupt from Venom's chest, tearing and pulling at the flowing dark muscle. Peter starts to push his way _out_ of Venom, straining with every ounce of strength in his body, walking towards Tony.

"Get _out_ of me!" Peter screams, straining against the parasite as it tries to wrap itself back around him. 

One of his legs pulls free of Venom's body, propelling the teen forward, step by shuddering step. He reaches for Tony, clinging to his shoulders. Tony snaps one of his arms around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him against his chest, twisting them both around so that he stands between Peter and the symbiote, shielding him from it. A distant part of himself realizes that this is the _first_ time he’s ever bothered to hug the kid.

Venom is almost formless without Peter’s body supporting its shape. It's still anchored to Peter’s chest by a single fleshy tentacle extending from Peter’s shirt. Tony aims his left gauntlet at it and fires up the flamethrower, pushing it to its absolute limit.

The flames shoot out. Venom screams.

Peter screams louder, dodging back and away from Tony’s hold. He’s clinging to his chest, stumbling away. Venom rolls across him the moment he’s out of Tony’s reach, sinking into Peter’s flesh and overtaking him once again.

It slowly turns and faces Tony, growling low in its throat.

Tony aims near Venom and pulses his makeshift flamethrower once. He just wants to frighten Venom back, to give the himself some breathing room--

A pale hand shoots out of Venom’s forearm, clamps down across his gauntlet in such a way that Tony _can’t_ shut down the flamethrower, and then yanks it and Tony around so that the flame strikes Venom’s chest directly. The flames roll across the black, oily muscle, peeling it back from his body. It’s a slow process; Peter’s shirt begins to scorch as the flames catch on his shirt, and the fire begins to spread across his chest. Tony can smell Peter’s skin cooking through the suit and gags. He tries to wrench his arm free. It doesn’t work; even starved, Peter is astonishingly strong. The symbiote is _shrieking_ , rippling back from the flames to hide along Peter’s shoulders and back. It still hasn’t let go of him, however, and Tony can see tendrils of it rooted firmly in Peter’s biceps.

He tries to free his wrist again, biting back growing panic. He’s _burning_ him, Jesus Christ, he’s hurting him. “ _Kid, let go--_ ”

“No!” Peter grits out. “Rhodey! Use your sound cannon! The one you used on the Scarlet Witch at the airport!”

“What?” Rhodey shouts back.

“Boost as much power as you can to your sonic cannon and aim it at my head!”

“Rhodey, you’ll deafen him--” Tony cuts in. The heat shielding has failed. His hand is burning now, too.

“You have to _trust me! I can't keep it back forever!_ ” Peter shouts. “ _Please!”_

Rhodey, to his credit, hesitates for only a moment before doing exactly as Peter asks. It takes him half a second to adjust the canon, and another to aim it. When he fires it, the sound that comes out--normally powerful enough to render a baseline human helpless and an enhanced one unconscious--sweeps over Peter in an unseen wave. 

He _screams,_ but doesn't move away. If anything, he pushes himself forward, leaning into both Tony's flamethrower and Rhodey's sonic cannon.

He's not the only one screaming. Something shrieks, high and furious, reaching a pitch impossible for human vocal cords. The darkness flows over Peter's shoulders, clings to him--and then rolls back. Pieces of it begin to flake off, scorched.

With one last, furious cry, Peter grabs Venom with his free hand and rips it off of and _out_ of himself. He flings it away with a ragged gasp, and the parasite skips across the wet pavement like an oily stone. Tony sees the moment the bond breaks, and makes his move. He wrenches his arm free of Peter's grip, boosts the power to his flamethrower, and unleashes it on what's left of Venom. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rhodey do the same with his sonic canon.

Peter slips out of his grasp and falls to the ground. Tony doesn’t risk stopping now. He and Rhodey shift positions, standing between Peter and where the parasite landed, focusing their fire.

Tony’s hand is _screaming_ in agony now, and he can smell his own burnt flesh, sharp and clear, in the damp air. He grits his teeth and ignores it until the gauntlet _clicks_ and powers down, the electronics failing to withstand the heat. It sizzles in the cool air, steam and smoke rising from it. Tony tests his hand, and then immediately regrets it, swaying from a suddenly swell of pain. Spots dance around the edges of his vision for a moment.

Okay, let’s not do that again, then.

Peter lays on the ground behind him, shaking, clutching his ears. He’s deathly pale, his eyes blown wide open, glazed and distant. He doesn’t react when the Avengers surround him aside from releasing a high pitched keening whimper. Clint’s aim at the darkness where Venom disappeared wavers when he hears that. Natasha's doesn't. Bucky hangs back beside Steve, shielding him on his wounded side. Sam rushes past both to drop to his knees beside Peter, extinguishing the smoldering remains of his shirt and checking his pulse.

“Is it gone?” Clint asks. “Dammit, I can’t see--”

Tony pushes all power to his sensors and starts a scan. Behind him, he can hear Rhodey do the same. All he sees is mud and rain. Nothing except for the Avengers and cars passing by. 

“I don’t see anything,” Rhodey says.

"It's gone,” Tony says with no small amount of relief. “The sound blast and the fire must have shredded it."

“Peter, take it easy, man, I need to--” Sam says, low and gentle.

“Get _back,_ ” Peter snaps.

The boy scrabbles back and away from the Avengers, putting as much distance himself and the others as much as he can. He’s pale, shaky, and his eyes dart around at every dark corner and shadow. He holds one trembling hand out at the others. His body is thin; where there was once lean muscle, there's now just skin and bone. His shirt is scorched black, and thin trickles of blood wind down the front of it; it must be excruciatingly painful, but the kid is only focused on keeping _them_ safe.

“S-stop. Don’t get close. I might--it might come back.”

“You’re safe,” Sam says, raising his hands and backing away to give him space. “Tony and Rhodey--”

“I can’t hear you,” Peter says, too loud. “Just stay _away_.”

Tony turns to face Peter and walks towards him with his hands up.

“Mr. Stark--Tony, _don’t--_ ” Peter stammers weakly.

Tony raises his right gauntlet and flashes a small hologram from it. It shudders in the rain, but holds firm. “FRIDAY, transcribe on the screen: Peter, you’re safe. It’s gone now. It’s dead.”

FRIDAY dutifully prints Tony’s words across the screen. Peter stares at the screen for a long time, his pale face illuminated by the gentle blue glow of the screen. Tony can see dark circles beneath his eyes, and a truly heinous bruise along his jaw where Steve was forced to strike him with his shield.

He looks up at Tony, desperate, on the verge of tears. “It’s gone?”

Tony nods, flicking his wrist so the screen disappears.

Peter stares up at him, shocked, and then promptly collapses onto his back with a wet _smack._ Tony sweeps him up from the ground immediately, cradling him against his chest protectively.

“Hawkeye, get the quinjet ready,” Steve orders. Blood has soaked his armor, staining the dark blue material a ruddy brown-black. Sam tosses a first aid kit his way and Barnes catches it without looking, his attention focused on Steve’s shoulder. “Contact the hospital closest to us and tell them we have wounded coming in.”

“On it,” Clint says, sprinting for the jet.

“I’ll fill in the police,” Natasha says, following after him.

“Rhodey, get them both on the jet,” Sam says quietly before launching himself into the air and over to the quinjet. 

Tony follows them, walking slowly. He almost can’t believe it. They did it. Peter’s safe. He’s whole. But god, they’ve paid for it. He watches Steve lumber towards the quinjet, stopping to look over his shoulder as if to make sure they’re still safe. Behind him, he can hear Rhodey’s footsteps.

“See anything, Rhodes?” Steve asks quietly.

“Nothing,” Rhodey replies, all business. “But I’m not taking any chances.”

Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter, walking up the ramp to the quinjet on pure autopilot. There isn't an ounce of fat on him. The kid weighs almost nothing now. Christ, was that thing _eating_ him? Tony can't guess at how much weight he's lost. Thirty pounds? More? It doesn't take much effort for him to carry Peter and set him down on a cot inside the quinjet at all. That bothers him, a lot. The kid has--had--the lean muscle of a champion gymnast, and his thin frame hides it well. Right now, Tony can feel Peter’s bones through his skin.

Barnes casts second and third looks at Peter, his jaw clenched. Finally, he walks over to Tony.

"Blankets," he says.

Tony stares at him.

"Blankets," Barnes repeats. He doesn’t quite fidget, but Tony can tell the man is both determined and uneasy. "He's as small as Steve used to be and he’s soaked. He's got to be freezing."

Tony stares at him for a moment longer, then finally nods. "Check the compartments near the cockpit. There should be some there."

Bucky nods, turning and silently walking towards the cockpit. He briefly steps sideways as Sam passes him, holding one of the larger first aid kits under one of his arms and dragging a mobile IV pole along behind himself.

"When the hell did we start putting IV poles on the jets?" Tony asks, moving to help him to place it near Peter’s cot. When Bucky appears beside him, he helps the man cover Peter’s arms and legs in blankets--they’re the silver survival kind, nearly weightless, but excellent at trapping and retaining heat. 

"When I moved back in," Sam says simply. He grabs Peter's arm and starts the process for finding a viable vein. "I had a feeling we'd need it sooner or later, and I was right. The kid looks dehydrated all to hell.”

“What can I do?” Tony asks, suddenly at a loss.

“Call his Aunt and have her meet us at the hospital. And stay close to Peter. If he wakes up, he might panic again,” Sam replies. 

“Right, okay,” Tony says. FRIDAY is already placing the call to May’s phone and texting her besides. The others move away to give him semblance of privacy but the quinjet is small enough that they’ll hear everything he says regardless. He appreciates the gesture all the same.

“Hello? Tony?” May sounds half asleep, murmuring into her phone with a gentle, worried tone.

“May, I need you to get up and put together an overnight bag for Peter. He’ll need clothes, a toothbrush--”

“Tony, what are you talking about?” She sounds alarmed now. “We--he’s buried at--”

“That wasn’t him, just some jackass who stole his coat. The Avengers and I just found him,” Tony cuts in. “Listen, it’s a long story. I’m sending Happy over to pick you up in a few minutes. He’ll bring you to the hospital we're taking him to. I can explain everything there.”

The other end is silent for a long time. Finally, in an almost wounded voice, she asks, “Are you sure it’s him? I haven’t seen him since the morning he disappeared, I can’t handle--if it isn’t him, I won’t--”

Tony turns, takes a picture of Peter--pale, thin, and very much in possession of his own head--then sends it to her.

Another prolonged silence follows, and then a choked, relieved sob breaks it. The first of many, he thinks. He’s still too keyed up to give in to his own emotions just yet, but good lord, it’s coming. 

“I’ll be there soon,” May says, her voice wavering only slightly. “Is he awake? Can he talk?”

“He’s out for the count right now. Nothing life threatening,” Tony says. “I’ll give you the full details when we meet..”

“He’ll want his phone,” she says to herself. “And...god, I don’t know if he--I’ll meet you there, Tony. I have to find clean clothes for him--”

She ends the call with a click. Tony sighs, calls Happy (who was significantly grumpier about getting a call in the middle of the night) and sends a quick message to Pepper.

_Important. Call me when you can. May will be staying with us for awhile again._

There. That’s done.

“Strap in!” Clint calls out from the cockpit. “We’re going into the storm! Nearest hospital is waiting for us!”

*** * ***

The quinjet lands on top of a hospital in Manhattan and is immediately swarmed by medical teams waiting for their arrival when the ramp lowers. What follows is a strangely ordered chaos, with nurses shouting back and forth to one another.

“Severe burns, get the doctor up!” One nurse yells into a small microphone at her collar. The first team heads for Peter, transferring him to a gurney before sprinting back down the ramp, IV pole and all. Sam is hot pursuit, filling in the nurses as they go.

The second team swarms Steve, coaxing him into a second gurney.

“Listen, I don’t---focus on Pete,” he says, settling into the gurney.

“Your shoulder’s dislocated and cut to all hell, pal,” a nurse says, her voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. “And this isn’t some World War II field hospital. We can do two things at once.”

“I like her,” Natasha says to Tony. It earns her a stern look from Steve, but that just seems to make her grin.

“You would,” Tony replies.

The nurse turns to face him, frowning, and her eyes settle on his left gauntlet. She points a finger at him and then towards the third gurney.

“No, I need to make sure May gets here, first,” Tony starts. Steve’s gurney is being pushed down the ramp as he speaks.

Rhodey claps his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “I think she outranks you right now, Tony. I think Clint, Nat, and I can handle Mrs. Parker.”

“Get on the gurney, Mr. Stark,” the nurse says, her tone brooking no argument. “Colonel Rhodes, you’re next.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rhodey replies.”

*** * ***

All in all, Tony got off light. His whole hand and wrist are burned, but the majority of the skin only qualified for first degree. His palm, however, suffered a second degree burn that will need further treatment to prevent infection. The pain is constant, a low grade throbbing that intensifies with each beat of his heart, and rises to a sharp crescendo when he forgets himself and flexes his hand or fingers. The doctors immobilize it, put it in a sling, and hand him two prescriptions: one for antibiotics, and another for top shelf painkillers.

He tosses the painkiller prescription the moment he leaves the exam room. He’s dealt with worse pain, and now that Peter’s back, he doesn’t want to risk a renewed addiction to opioids. 

Also Pepper would murder him.

He texts Rhodey as soon as he’s free and gets a message back immediately.

_Doc’s still checking out that concussion. He wasn’t too impressed with me going back into action so soon. I’ll meet you at Peter’s room when I can._

Tony sends back a row of heart emojis, just to be an ass, and heads straight for Peter’s room. FRIDAY supplies him with directions through his phone. She also sends him an update straight from the doctor, and Tony finds himself mildly impressed. The doctor rightly assumed he’d want to know Peter’s condition as soon as possible and sent a brief email explaining that Mrs. Parker gave him permission to share that information, and he’ll meet with Tony shortly.

Another mark in this hospital’s favor. Clint knows how to pick ‘em, apparently.

Peter’s room is in a secure part of the burn ward, and there’s a sort of airlock between the hallway and his room that Tony suspects harkens back to a quirk of design from the hospital’s older days. Windows peer into Peter’s room, and there’s quiet activity playing out inside as a doctor, a short man with thick glasses, a bald spot, and weak chin goes over Peter’s chart with a nurse.

Tony isn’t surprised to see May is already at Peter’s side, curled up asleep on a chair beside his bed. She’s holding one of his hands between both of hers, and even from this distance, Tony can see she’s been crying. The doctor and nurse keep their voices low as they speak.

The door behind him opens, and he turns to find the Avengers filing in one by one. Each of them peers through the window, and he sees matching looks of relief when they realize he isn’t in immediate danger.

“How is he?” Steve asks, adjusting the sling on his shoulder. Tony’s almost amused to see that it’s his right shoulder that needs the sling; between the two of them, they have a working pair of arms.

“The doctor’s going to come by and give me the full run down soon, but he hasn’t hooked Peter up to every medical machine known to man. I’m taking it as a good sign,” Tony replies.

Steve lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “I think I will, too.”

Tony, still idly rocking back and on his heels, stops and turns to face him. “Thank you.”

_Thanks for staying, for helping, for carrying the casket of a boy you’ve only met once, for helping me find him and bring him home when I found out he wasn’t dead--_

Steve smiles, easy and free, just as he did before their so called Civil War, and reaches out to clasp his good hand in firm shake. “Anytime, Tony.”

“How’s the arm?” Tony asks, jerking his chin towards it. The sling looks odd on Steve. It’s just downright weird to see Captain America sporting any kind of medical device, frankly.

“It was dislocated and a little cut up, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Who got the honor of manhandling your arm back into place?”

“Nurse Feldstein,” Steve says.

“The lady that chased you both onto your gurneys,” Barnes adds with a small smirk.

“She’s terrifying. I think I might hire her,” Tony muses. 

“Either way, as one solid nap and I’ll be good for my turn on watch,” Steve says. 

He emphasizes the point with a large yawn, gently clapping Tony’s shoulder as he moves towards the door. He’s moving slowly, a bit stiffly, and Barnes falls in beside him the moment he passes through the door and into the hospital proper.

Tony tilts his head, then turns to face the remaining Avengers, Nat, Clint, and Sam. “Watch? What is he talking about?”

“Nat and I came up with a little schedule on the way here,” Clint says. “You and May can’t be in Pete’s room all the time, and Rhodey’s still dealing with that concussion. So, one of us will sub in and keep watch over the kid when you or May have to step out.”

“It’ll give you and May a chance to eat and shower,” Sam adds. “Maybe even sleep.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Tony replies. “I’m not letting that kid out of my sight for the next six months.”

“That’s what I told them,” Nat says, a small smirk. “But it’s nice to have in place, just in case. Old habits.”

Tony can’t fault their argument. “Huh. Good idea.”

“For now, I’m overdue for a call back home,” Clint says, heading for the door. “Need to check in with home base.”

“Tell the spawnlings I said hi,” Tony calls after him. He hears a brief chuckle before the door shuts and turns to face Natasha. “Sticking around?”

“No,” Natasha replies. “I’m going to go to sleep. I’ll be back in five hours, and then _you_ are going to sleep.”

“I can’t tell if this is a suggestion or a threat.”

Natasha’s response is a slight smirk, and then she follows Clint through the door.

“Tony.” Sam hands him a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. "Here."

Tony frowns, taking it. "Who is this?"

"Dr. Tanisha Williams," Sam replies. “She’s a therapist that specializes in treating people like Peter. People who’ve really gone through something terrible."

Tony takes the paper, recalling a similar situation not so long ago. “You know her?”

“I asked the terrifying nurse if she knew anyone. She put me into contact with a victim’s services advocate. Apparently Dr. Williams is the best in the city when it comes to crime related trauma,” Sam replies. 

“I’ll pass it along to May,” Tony says.

“She’s already got it. That’s for you,” Sam says. And then he leaves, before Tony can turn it down. Apparently he’s been getting lessons from Pepper and Natasha on how to handle his bullshit.

Or Rhodey. 

The door to Peter’s room opens, and the doctor steps out. “Mr. Stark?”

“Yes?” Tony turns to face him as the doctor closes the door behind himself. Tony can see inside the room behind him. The nurse grabs a blanket from her cart and gently spreads it across May’s sleeping form. May doesn’t stir, her hand still clinging to Peter’s.

“How is he?” Tony asks, facing the doctor.

“All things being equal, he’s not the worst case I’ve had tonight. I was worried about the burn across his chest, but having taken a second look, I think he’ll be all right,” the doctor says. “Burn treatment is a tricky thing, however, and we’ll need to keep a close eye on it. It’s healing better than I expected, so I can only assume it was worse than it looked.”

Tony lets out a quiet sigh of relief. The burn had been _horrific_ , actually. The fact that it looks better now, barely an hour after sustaining it, means that Peter’s healing factor is getting to work already.

“Complicating matters is his weight. He’s been starved to almost nothing," the doctor says. "He'll be on a soup diet for awhile until we build him back up to where he needs to be. I want him eating and resting as much as possible."

"Right. But other than that? Nothing came up on any scans? Blood tests?"

“Nothing unusual for his condition, Mr. Stark," the doctor replies reassuringly. "What you have here is a teenage boy ground down to almost nothing, but he can come back from it. He just needs support."

Tony lets out a sigh of relief, nodding. "He has it. Always."

The doctor smiles, warm and kind. "Good. I’ll get started on making the arrangements with your team at the Tower, but I must insist that he stays here for another day, at the very least." 

“You know best, doc,” Tony replies. “We’ll stay here for another day.”

“Excellent.” The doctor looks past Tony's shoulder and clears his throat. "It looks like you have another visitor. I'll be back in an hour to check on Mr. Parker."

Tony looks over his shoulder. Detective Brannigan is standing in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, badge clipped to her belt. He mentally prepares himself for the conversation ahead and nods to the doctor, who makes a quick retreat past the detective. Tony turns to face her.

"Detective. I didn't expect to see you here," he says.

"The Black Widow gave me a call and told me I could officially close out my case. I need a few details for my report before I can do that," she replies, walking over to stand beside him. She watches Peter through the glass for a moment, her expression turning thoughtful. 

"I'm a little preoccupied--"

"And the sooner we get your story straight, the better," she cuts in smoothly. "The monster's gone?"

"Yes."

"But there's no body to show as proof."

"No," Tony answers. Technically, Venom's body is laying in bed in front of them, dehydrated, starved, and weak. He's not eager to explain that part. "There wasn't enough left of it to bother keeping. It was incinerated."

"And who found Mr. Parker?"

"Spiderman," Tony replies. "He saved Peter. The guy we buried was one of Carlton Drake’s goons who stole Peter’s jacket. The monster had Peter trapped in one of its nests this entire time."

Brannigan looks at him from the corner of her eye. "It's a little strange how long Spiderman's been missing, only to turn up now."

"He was preoccupied," Tony replies smoothly. "This is bigger than his usual work, you know, but he was way ahead of us. He found Peter in one of those nests. We couldn’t have done this without him."

"Hm." Brannigan goes quiet, then nods. "Okay. That matches up with what every other Avenger has told me, more or less."

Tony breathes a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he wants is for this to get out. There's already going to be a media shitshow over the kid's disappearance and rescue. The story he just fed Brannigan is far from airtight, but if he can fool her, it might slip past the radar given the explosive news surrounding the Aveners reforming, the Life Foundation at large and Carlton Drake in particular.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what the biggest theory is," he says, half to himself.

"The latest theory at the station is that one of Carlton Drake's alien parasites took over a member of his goon squad when it broke out of containment and turned them into a brain eating monster. Peter Parker was in the wrong place at the wrong time." She looks at him from the corner of her eye. "Until Spiderman saved him and told the Avengers where the monster was hiding."

"Sounds about right to me," Tony says.

"Then that's what the report will say. Tell Spiderman I said thank you, and to call if he ever needs anything." She glances into the hospital room and her gaze softens. “And maybe tell him to put on a little more weight before he puts the mask on again.”

Tony freezes in place. Brannigan scoffs.

"Really, Mr. Stark, I'm a detective. Give me some credit."

“And this won’t be a problem, will it?” Tony asks slowly.

“No, of course not. The kid does good work.” She stops and offers him a wry grin. “Besides, who’d believe me?”

Good point. It’s one thing for a man like Tony Stark to announce his identity on live TV. It’s quite another when some nerdy kid from Queens is supposedly ‘revealed’ to be a superhero. People will be naturally skeptical.

Brannigan’s phone beeps and she pulls it out to check it. She sighs. “I’d better head back. The FBI wants to talk to Drake.”

“Keep me posted on that.”

“Of course. You’re my star witness,” Brannigan replies, leaving him alone.

The door shuts behind her, and Tony lets out a small breath, marveling at his luck and everything that’s happened since Peter disappeared. There’s still trouble on the horizon; between the media, the looming court cases against Ross and Carlton Drake, and the finalization of the renewed Accords, his schedule is going to be packed pretty tightly. But for now, he can rest.

His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket, answering without looking.

“Tony? I just got your message,” Pepper says. “What’s going on? Is May okay?”

“Boy, have I got a story for you,” Tony says.

*** * ***

The darkness flows from sewer to subway to street. It's hurt. Hurt worse than it's ever been hurt. It will take time to heal. Months. Years. But now it knows how to handle a host on this planet. It knows to go slow. Instant bonds are deadly if done wrong. It knows that now. 

It sticks to the shadows, one pool of darkness moving among many, slithering towards warmth lurking in the dark. It flows over and inside it. A rodent. Something small, cunning, but not as smart as its last host. The rat staggers drunkenly, stumbling out into the street.

Someone kicks it, and sends it flying off into the shadows with a ragged squeak.

"Augh, what the--god, gross. I just got these shoes," a teen says, shaking his foot and dragging it against the curb.

The darkness clings to the shoe, then flows _through_ it, slipping between the seams of the high quality sneaker like oil. From there, it takes no effort to sink into flesh.

This body isn't as strong as the last one, but it can hide here. It will last much longer than the rat. Maybe forever. For now, it will rest. Heal. Think. It will hibernate, then begin its own silent observation from behind this one’s eyes.

It's asleep in moments.

Flash Thompson looks over his shoe carefully. Finding nothing, he shrugs. That dark splotch had probably been a trick of the light. At least he didn't kick the poor rat hard enough to make it bleed. That would've bummed him out a little, even if it was one of the biggest rats he's ever seen.

An alert flashes on his phone, a message from his father.

_Coming home early. Big case. Clean up whatever mess you’ve left behind before I get there. You have twelve hours to make that house spotless._

Flash sighs, pocketing his phone. Great. Just what he needs. He grabs his keys and heads back towards his car. If he gets started now, he _might_ get the house up to his father’s impossible standards.

Ha. If only.

Flash opens his car door and pulls himself inside, dropping back against the plush leather seat with a sigh. He starts the car and stares at the rain hitting his windshield, briefly entertaining the idea of just driving off and leaving New York behind completely. He drops the idea the moment it comes to mind; he needs that diploma from Midtown. 

Another thought occurs to him. He still has the number Tony Stark gave him. He could call him, maybe arrange for a place to stay--

_NO._

A single thought, more emotion than anything else, wells up within him and stops him cold. It’s loud enough to make him jump. He frowns at his hands, surprised to find them clinging to the wheel so tightly. Puzzled, he forces his hands to relax and thinks. Tony did say he would help--

_But he was being polite, nothing else. You need to do this on your own._

Right. He has a plan. He should stick to it. Muscle through the last of school, get a scholarship, maybe join the military.

He takes in a deep breath, turns on some music, and instead starts the long drive home. 

God, his leg feels weird. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts Time:
> 
> \- The original draft had Bruce, Wanda, Vision, and Thor involved. That was officially Too Many People to keep track of. (also rectifying MCU!Wanda with Comic!Wanda was proving to be exceptionally difficult and I can't write Vision to save my life; he just ends up being an Ambulatory JARVIS whenever I try.)
> 
> \- The opening scene to the fic was different; Peter accidentally flew his drone into Tony's face, then basically went no contact out of shame. I couldn't get it to work.
> 
> \- The cops were going to investigate Tony as a prime suspect in one chapter. It slowed down the plot and added nothing, so I axed it.
> 
> \- Carnage was going to make an appearance. (Again, Too Many People)
> 
> \- The original draft of the Tony and Drake scene involved Tony exposing Drake's many affairs, his crooked money dealing, and a few other things. It somehow ended up being a repeat of the talk Tony had with Flash's father, so I had to redo it.
> 
> \- Speaking of which, in an alternate draft, May gave Flash's dad a black eye and put the fear of god in him.
> 
> \- I have no idea what Flash's dad's name is.
> 
> \- No one told me endings were this hard.
> 
> \- I am never writing a fight scene with more than three people ever again, oh my god.


End file.
